DIPLOMACY
Waymark had a good deal of frank talk with himself before meeting Ida
again on the Sunday. Such conversation was, as we know, habitual. Under
the circumstances, however, he felt that it behoved him to become
especially clear on one or two points; never mind what course he might
ultimately pursue, it was always needful to him to dissect his own
motives, that he might at least be acting with full consciousness.
One thing was clear enough. The fiction of a mere friendship between
himself and Ida was impossible to support. It had been impossible under
the very different circumstances of a year ago, and was not likely to
last a week, now that Ida could so little conceal how her own feelings
had changed. What, then, was to be their future? Could he accept her
love, and join their lives without legal bond, thinking only of present
happiness, and content to let things arrange themselves as they would
in the years to come?
His heart strongly opposed such a step. Clearly Ida had changed her
life for his sake, and was undergoing hardships in the hope of winning
his respect as well as his love. Would she have done all this without
something of a hope that she might regain her place in the every-day
world, and be held by Waymark worthy to become his wife? He could not
certainly know, but there was little doubt that this hope had led her
on. Could he believe her capable of yet nobler ideas; could he think
that only in reverence of the sanctity of love, and without regard to
other things, she had acted in this way; then, regarding her as indeed
his equal, he would open his heart to her and speak somewhat in this
way. "Yes, I do love you; but at the same time I know too well the
uncertainty of love to go through the pretence of binding myself to you
for ever. Will you accept my love in its present sincerity, neither
hoping nor fearing, knowing that whatever happens is beyond our own
control, feeling with me that only an ignoble nature can descend to the
affectation of union when the real links are broken?" Could Waymark but
have felt sure of her answer to such an appeal, it would have gone far
to make his love for Ida all-engrossing. She would then be his ideal
woman, and his devotion to her would have no bounds.
But he felt too strongly that in thus speaking he would sadden her by
the destruction of her great hope. On the other hand, to offer to make
her his legal wife would be to do her a yet greater injustice, even had
he been willing to so sacrifice himself. The necessity for legal
marriage would be a confession of her inferiority, and the sense of
being thus bound would, he well knew, be the surest means of weakening
his affection. This affection he could not trust. How far was it mere
passion of the senses, which gratification would speedily kill?
In the case of his feeling towards Maud Enderby there was no such
doubt. Never was his blood so calm as in her presence. She was to him a
spirit, and in the spirit he loved her. With Maud he might look forward
to union at some distant day, a union outwardly of the conventional
kind. It would be so, not on account of any inferiority to his ideal in
Maud, for he felt that there was no height of his own thought whither
she would not in time follow him; but simply because no point of
principle would demand a refusal of the yoke of respectability, with
its attendant social advantages. And the thought of thus binding
himself to Maud had nothing repulsive, for the links between them were
not of the kind which easily yield, and loyalty to a higher and nobler
nature may well be deemed a duty.
So far logical arguing. But the fact remained that he had not the least
intention of breaking off his intercourse with Ida, despite the
certainty that passion would grow upon him with each of their meetings,
rendering their mutual relations more and more dangerous. Of only one
thing could he be sure: marriage was not to be thought of. It remained,
then, that he was in danger of being led into conduct which would be
the source of grievous unrest to himself, and for Ida would lay the
foundation of much suffering. Waymark was honest enough in his
self-communing to admit that he could not trust himself. Gross
deception he was incapable of, but he would not answer for it that, the
temptation pressing him too hard, he might not be guilty of allowing
Ida to think his love of more worth than it really was. She knew his
contempt of conventional ties, and her faith in him would keep her from
pressing him to any step he disliked; she would trust him without that.
And such trust would be unmerited.
It was significant that he did not take into account loyalty to Maud as
a help in resisting this temptation. He was too sure of himself as
regarded that purer love; let what might happen, his loyalty to Maud
would be unshaken. It was independent of passion, and passion could not
shake it.
Then came the subject of the proposed acquaintance between Ida and Mrs.
Casti. An impulse of friendship had led to his conceiving the idea;
together, perhaps, with the recollection of what Ida had said about her
loneliness, and the questions she had asked about Mrs. Casti. Waymark
had little doubt that those questions indicated a desire to become
acquainted with his friends; the desire was natural, under the
circumstances. Still, he regretted what he had done. To introduce Ida
to his friends would be almost equivalent to avowing some conventional
relations between her and himself. And, in the next place, it would be
an obstacle in the way of those relations becoming anything but
conventional. Well, and was not this exactly the kind of aid he needed
in pursuing the course which he felt to be right? Truly; yet--
At this point Waymark broke into that half contemptuous, half indulgent
laugh which so frequently interrupted his self-communings, and, it
being nearly one o'clock, set out to call for Ida. The day was fine,
and, when they left the steamer at Putney, they walked on to the heath
in good spirits and with cheerful talk. To be with Ida under these
circumstances, in the sunlight and the fresh breeze, was very different
from sitting with her yonder in the little room, with the lamp burning
on the table, and the quietness of night around. The calm pleasure of
passionless intercourse was realised and sufficing. Ida, too, seemed
content to enjoy the moment; there was not that wistfulness in her eyes
which had been so new to him and so strong in its influence. It was
easy to find indifferent subjects of conversation, and to avoid the
seriousness which would have been fatal.
When they had found a pleasant spot to rest awhile before turning back,
Waymark made up his mind to fulfil his promise to Julian.
"It's rather strange," he said, "that you should have been asking me
questions about Mrs. Casti. Since then I've discovered that you
probably know her, or once did."
Ida looked surprised.
"Do you remember once having a schoolfellow called Harriet Smales?"
"Is that _her_ name?"
"It was, before her marriage."
Ida became grave, and thought for some moments before speaking again.
"Yes, I remember her," she said, "and not pleasantly."
"You wouldn't care to renew her acquaintance then?" said Waymark, half
glad, in spite of himself, that she spoke in this way.
Ida asked, with earnestness, how he had made this discovery. Waymark
hesitated, but at length told the truth. He explained that Mrs. Casti
suffered from the want of companionship, and that he had mentioned
Ida's name to Julian; whence the discovery.
"Has _she_ been told about me?" asked Ida.
"Nothing was to be said till I had spoken to you."
Waymark paused, but presently continued in a more serious tone. In
recurring to that conversation with Julian, his friend's trouble spoke
strongly to him once more, and overcame selfish thoughts.
"I said that I had come to know you by chance, and that--strange as it
might sound--we were simply friends." He glanced for an instant at Ida;
her eyes were turned to the ground. "You will believe me," he went on
quickly, "when I tell you that I really said nothing more?"
"I never doubt a word of yours," was Ida's quiet reply.
"Casti was overjoyed at the thought of finding such a friend for his
wife. Of course I told him that he must not certainly count either on
your consent or on his wife's. Hers I thought to be perhaps more
doubtful than yours."
"Could I really be of any use to her," asked Ida, after a silence,
"with so little free time as I have?"
"Supposing she would welcome you, I really believe you could be of
great use. She is a strange creature, miserably weak in body and mind.
If you could get to regard this as a sort of good work you were called
upon to undertake, you would very likely be little less than an angel
of mercy to both of them. Casti is falling into grievous
unhappiness--why, you will understand sufficiently if you come to know
them."
"Do you think she bears malice against me?"
"Of that I know nothing. Casti said she had never spoken of you in that
way. By-the-by, she still has a scar on her forehead, I often wondered
how it came there."
Ida winced.
"What a little termagant you must have been!" exclaimed Waymark,
laughing. "How hard it is to fancy you at that age, Ida.--What was the
quarrel all about?"
"I can't speak of it," she replied, in a low, sad voice. "It is so long
ago; and I want to forget it."
Waymark kept silence.
"Do you wish me to be her friend?" Ida asked, suddenly looking up.
"Certainly not if you dislike the thought."
"No, no. But you think it would be doing good? you would like me to
help your friend if I can?"
"Yes, I should," was Waymark's reply.
"Then I hope she will be willing to let me go and see her. I will do my
very best. Let us lose no time in trying. It is such a strange thing
that we should meet again in this way; perhaps it is something more
than chance."
Waymark smiled.
"You think I am superstitious?" she asked quickly. "I often feel so. I
have all sorts of hopes and faiths that you would laugh at."
Ida's thoughts were busy that night with the past and the future. The
first mention of Harriet's name had given her a shock; it brought back
with vividness the saddest moments of her life; it awoke a bitter
resentment which mere memory had no longer kept the power to revive.
That was only for a moment, however. The more she accustomed herself to
the thought, the easier it seemed to be to bury the past in
forgiveness. Harriet must have changed so much since those days.
Possibly there would never be a mention between them of the old
trouble; practically they would be new acquaintances, and would be very
little helped to an understanding of each other by the recollections of
childhood. And then Ida felt there was so much to be glad of in the new
prospects. She longed for a world more substantial than that of her own
imaginations, and here, as she thought, it would be opened to her.
Above all, by introducing her to his friends, Waymark had strengthened
the relations between her and himself. He was giving her, too, a chance
of showing herself to him in a new light. For the first time he would
see her under the ordinary conditions of a woman's life in a home
circle. Ida had passed from one extreme to the other. At present there
was nothing she desired so much as the simple, conventional, every-day
existence of the woman who has never swerved from the beaten track. She
never saw a family group anywhere without envying the happiness which
to her seemed involved in the mere fact of a home and relations. Her
isolation weighed heavily upon her. If there were but some one who
could claim her services, as of right, and in return render her the
simple hum-drum affection which goes for so much in easing the burden
of life. She was weary of her solitary heroism, though she never
regarded it as heroism, but merely as the path in which she was
naturally led by her feelings. Waymark could not but still think of her
very much in the old light, and she wished to prove to him how
completely she was changed. The simple act of making tea for him when
he came to see her had been a pleasure; it was domestic and womanly,
and she had often glanced at his face to see whether he noticed it at
all. Then the fact of Harriet's being an invalid would give her many
opportunities for showing that she could be gentle and patient and
serviceable. Casti would observe these things, and doubtless would
speak of them to Waymark. Thinking in this way, Ida became all
eagerness for the new friendship. There was of course the possibility
that Harriet would refuse to accept her offered kindness, but it seemed
very unlikely, and the disappointment would be so great that she could
not bear to dwell on the thought. Waymark had promised to come as soon
as he had any news. The time would go very slowly till she saw him.
Waymark had met Harriet very seldom of late. Julian spent regularly one
evening a week with him, but it was only occasionally that Waymark paid
a visit in turn. He knew that he was anything but welcome to Mrs.
Casti, who of course had neither interest nor understanding for the
conversation between himself and Julian. Formerly he had now and then
tried his best to find some common subject for talk with her, but the
effort had been vain; she was hopelessly stupid, and more often than
not in a surly mood, which made her mere presence difficult to be
endured. Of late, whenever he came, she made her illness an excuse for
remaining in her bed-room. And hence arose another trouble. The two
rooms were only divided by folding doors, and when Harriet got
impatient with what she conceived to be the visitor's undue stay, she
would rap on the doors, to summon Julian to her. This rapping would
take place sometimes six or seven times in half an hour, till Waymark
hastened away in annoyance. And indeed there was little possibility of
conversing in Julian's own room. Julian sat for ever in a state of
nervous apprehension, dreading the summons which was sure to come
before long. When he left the room for a moment, in obedience to it,
Waymark could hear Harriet's voice speaking in a peevish or
ill-tempered tone, and Julian would return pale with agitation, unable
to utter consecutive words. It was a little better when the meeting was
at Waymark's, but even then Julian was anything but at his ease. He
would often sit for a long time in gloomy silence, and seldom could
even affect his old cheerfulness. The change which a year had made in
him was painful. His face was growing haggard with ceaseless anxiety.
The slightest unexpected noise made him start nervously. His old
enthusiasms were dying away. His daily work was a burden which grew
more and more oppressive. He always seemed weary, alike in body and
mind.
Harriet's ailments were not of that unreal kind which hysterical women
often affect, for the mere sake of demanding sympathy, though it was
certain she made the most of them. The scrofulous taint in her
constitution was declaring itself in many ways. The most serious
symptoms took the form of convulsive fits. On Julian's return home one
evening, he had found her stretched upon the floor, unconscious,
foaming at the mouth, and struggling horribly. Since then, he had come
back every night in agonies of miserable anticipation. Her illness, and
his own miseries, were of course much intensified by her self-willed
habits. When she remained away from home till after midnight, Julian
was always in fear lest some accident had happened to her, and once or
twice of late she had declared (whether truly or not it was impossible
to say) that she had had fits in the open street. Weather made no
difference to her; she would leave home on the pretence of making
necessary purchases, and would come back drenched with rain. Protest
availed nothing, save to irritate her. At times her conduct was so
utterly unreasonable that Julian looked at her as if to see whether she
had lost her senses. And all this he bore with a patience which few
could have rivalled. Moments there were when she softened, and, in a
burst of hysterical weeping, begged him to forgive her for some unusual
violence, pleading her illness as the cause; and so sensible was he to
compassion, that he always vowed in his mind to bear anything rather
than deal harshly with her. Love for her, in the true sense, he had
never felt, but his pity often led him to effusions of tenderness which
love could scarcely have exceeded. He was giving up everything for her.
Through whole evenings he would sit by her, as she lay in pain, holding
her hands, and talking in a way which he thought would amuse or
interest her.
"You're sorry you married me," she would often say at such times. "It's
no good saying no; I'm sure you are."
That always made Julian think of her father, and of his own promise
always to be a friend to the poor, weak, ailing creature; and he
strengthened himself in his resolution to bear everything.
Waymark decided that he would venture on the step of going to see
Harriet during the daytime, whilst Julian was away, in order to speak
of Ida. This he did on the Monday, and was lucky enough to find her at
home. She was evidently surprised at his visit, and perhaps still more
so at the kind and friendly way in which he began to speak to her. In a
few minutes he had worked round to his subject. He had, he said, a
friend, a young lady who was very lonely, and for whom he wanted to
find an agreeable companion. It had occurred to him that perhaps he
might ask to be allowed to introduce her. Waymark had concluded that
this would probably be the best way of putting it; Harriet would
perhaps be flattered by being asked to confer the favour of her
acquaintance. And indeed she seemed so; there was even something like a
momentary touch of colour in her pale cheek.
"Does Julian know her?" she asked, fixing her eyes on his with the
closest scrutiny.
"No, he does not."
He would leave her to what conclusion she liked about his relations to
Ida; in reality that mattered little.
"She is some one," he went on, "for whom I have a great regard. As I
say, she has really no friends, and she earns her own living. I feel
sure you would find her company pleasant; she is sensible and cheerful,
and would be very grateful for any kindness you showed her. Her name,
by-the-by, is Ida Starr."
"Ida Starr?"
"Is the name familiar to you?"
"I used to know some one called that."
"Indeed? How strange it would be if you knew her already. I have spoken
to her of you, but she didn't tell me she knew your name."
"Oh no, she wouldn't. It was years and years ago. We used to go to
school together--if it's the same."
The way in which this was spoken was not very promising, but Waymark
would not be discouraged, having once brought himself to the point of
carrying the scheme through. Harriet went on to ask many questions, all
of which he answered as satisfactorily as he could, and in the end she
expressed herself quite willing to renew Ida's acquaintance. Waymark
had watched her face as closely as she did his, and he was able to read
pretty accurately what was passing in her mind. Curiosity, it was
clear, was her main incentive. Good will there was none; its growth, if
at all possible, would depend upon Ida herself. There was even
something very like a gleam of hate in her dark eyes when Ida's name
was first spoken.
"When may I bring her!" Waymark asked. "Perhaps you would like to talk
it over with Julian first? By-the-by, perhaps he remembers her as your
schoolfellow?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with a pretence of indifference. "I
don't see what he can have to say against it. Bring her as soon as you
like."
"She is not free till seven at night. Perhaps we had better leave it
till next Sunday?"
"Why? Why couldn't she come to-morrow night?"
"It is very good of you. I have no doubt she would be glad."
With this understanding Waymark took his departure.
"Do you remember Ida Starr?" was Harriet's first question to her
husband when he returned that evening.
"Certainly I do," replied Julian, with complete self-control. "Why?"
"When did you see her last?" followed quickly, whilst she examined him
as keenly as she had done Waymark.
"See her?" repeated Julian, laughing. "Do you mean the girl you went to
school with?"
"Of course I do."
"I don't know that I ever saw her in my life."
"Well, she's coming here to-morrow night."
An explanation followed.
"Hasn't he ever spoken to you about her?" Harriet asked.
"No," said Julian, smiling. "I suppose he thought it was a private
affair, in which no one else had any interest."
"I hope you will like her," he said presently. "It will be very nice to
have a friend of that kind, won't it?"
"Yes,--if she doesn't throw one of my own plates at me."