THE OPPORTUNITY
One or two days after this, Ida Starr came home from work with a heavy
heart. Quite without notice, and without explanation, her employer had
paid her a week's wages and dismissed her. Her first astonished
questions having been met with silence by the honest but hard-grained
woman who kept the laundry, Ida had not condescended to any further
appeal. The fact was that the laundress had received a visit from a
certain Mrs. Sprowl, who, under pretence of making inquiries for the
protection of a young female friend, revealed the damaging points of
Ida's story, and gained the end plotted with Harriet Casti.
Several circumstances united to make this event disastrous to Ida. Her
wages were very little more than she needed for her week to week
existence, yet she had managed to save a shilling or two now and then.
The greater part of these small savings she had just laid out in some
new clothing, the reason for the expense being not so much necessity,
as a desire to be rather better dressed when she accompanied Waymark on
those little country excursions which had reestablished themselves of
late. By no means the smallest part of Ida's heroism was that involved
in this matter of external appearance. A beautiful woman can never be
indifferent to the way in which her beauty is arrayed. That Waymark was
not indifferent to such things she knew well, and often she suffered
from the thought that one strong means of attraction was lost to her.
If at one moment Ida was conscious of her claim to inspire a noble
enthusiasm, at another she fell into the saddest self-distrust, and, in
her hunger for love, would gladly have sought every humblest aid of
grace and adornment. So she had yielded to the needs of her heart, and
only this morning was gladdened by the charm of some new clothing which
became her well, and which Waymark would see in a day or two. It lay
there before her now that she returned home, and, in the first onset of
trouble, she sat down and cried over it.
She suffered the more, too, that there had been something of a falling
off of late in the good health she generally enjoyed. The day's work
seemed long and hard; she felt an unwonted need of rest. And these
things caused trouble of the mind. With scarcely an hour of depression
she had worked on through those months of solitude, supported by the
sense that every day brought an accession of the strength of purity,
that the dark time was left one more stage behind, and that trust in
herself was growing assured.
But it was harder than she had foreseen, to maintain reserve and
reticence when her heart was throbbing with passion; the effect upon
her of Waymark's comparative coldness was so much harder to bear than
she had imagined. Her mind tortured itself incessantly with the fear
that some new love had taken possession of him. And now there had
befallen her this new misfortune, which, it might be, would once more
bring about a crisis in her life.
Of course she must forthwith set about finding new work. It would be
difficult, seeing that she had now no reference to give. Reflection had
convinced her that it must have been some discovery of her former life
which had led to her sudden dismissal, and this increased her
despondency. Yet she would not give way to it. On the following morning
she began her search for employment, and day after day faced without
result the hateful ordeal. Hope failed as she saw her
painfully-eked-out coins become fewer and fewer. In a day or two she
would have nothing, and what would happen then?
When she returned to London to begin a new life, now nearly a year ago,
she had sold some and pawned the rest of such possessions as would in
future be useful to her. Part of the money thus obtained had bought the
furniture of her rooms; what remained had gone for a few months to
supplement her weekly wages, thus making the winter less a time of
hardship than it must otherwise have been. One or two articles yet
remained capable of being turned into small sums, and these she now
disposed of at a neighbouring pawnbroker's--the same she had previously
visited on the occasion of pawning one or two of the things, the
tickets for which Harriet Casti had so carefully inspected. She spoke
to no one of her position. Yet now the time was quickly coming when she
must either have help from some quarter or else give up her lodgings.
In food she was already stinting herself to the verge of starvation.
And through all this she had to meet her friends as hitherto, if
possible without allowing any trace of her suffering to become visible.
Harriet, strange to say, had been of late a rather frequent visitor,
and was more pressing than formerly in her invitations. Ida dreaded her
coming, as it involved the unwarrantable expense of obtaining luxuries
now unknown in her cupboard, such as tea and butter. And, on the other
hand, it was almost impossible to affect cheerfulness in the company of
the Castis. At times she caught Julian's eyes fixed upon her, and felt
that he noticed some change in her appearance. She had a sense of guilt
in their presence, as if she were there on false pretences. For,
together with her daily work, much of her confidence had gone; an
inexplicable shame constantly troubled her. She longed to hide herself
away, and be alone with her wretchedness.
If it came to asking for help, of whom could she ask it but of Waymark?
Yet for some time she felt she could not bring herself to that. In the
consciousness of her own attitude towards him, it seemed to her that
Waymark might well doubt the genuineness of her need, might think it a
mere feint to draw him into nearer relations. She could not doubt that
he knew her love for him; she did not desire to hide it, even had she
been able. But him she could not understand. A struggle often seemed
going on within him in her presence; he appeared to repress his
impulses; he was afraid of her. At times passion urged her to break
through this barrier between them, to bring about a situation which
would end in clear mutual understanding, cost her what it might. At
other times she was driven to despair by the thought that she had made
herself too cheap in his eyes. Could she put off the last vestige of
her independence, and, in so many words, ask him to give her money?
This evening she expected Waymark, but the usual time of his coming
went by. She sat in the twilight, listening with painful intentness to
every step on the stairs; again and again her heart leaped at some
footfall far below, only to be deceived. She had not even now made up
her mind how to speak to him, or whether to speak to him at all; but
she longed passionately to see him. The alternations of hope and
disappointment made her feverish. Illusions began to possess her. Once
she heard distinctly the familiar knock. It seemed to rouse her from
slumber: she sprang to the door and opened it, but no one was there.
She ran half way down the stairs, but saw no one. It was now nearly
midnight. The movement had dispelled for a little the lethargy which
was growing upon her, and she suddenly came to a resolution. Taking a
sheet of note-paper, she wrote this:--
"I have been without work for a fortnight. All my money is done, and I
am in want. Can you send me some, for present help, till I get more
work? _Do not bring it yourself, and do not speak a word of this when
you see me, I beg you earnestly_. If I shall fail to get work, I will
speak to you of my own accord.
I. S."
She went out and posted this, though she had no stamp to put on the
envelope; then, returning, she threw herself as she was on to the bed,
and before long passed into unconsciousness.
Waymark's absence that evening had been voluntary. His work had come to
a standstill; his waking hours were passed in a restless misery which
threatened to make him ill. And to-night he had not dared to go to Ida;
in his present state the visit could have but one result, and even yet
he hoped that such a result might not come about. He left home and
wandered about the streets till early morning. All manner of projects
occupied him. He all but made up his mind to write a long letter to Ida
and explain his position without reserve. But he feared lest the result
of that might be to make Ida hide away from him once more, and to this
loss he could not reconcile himself. Yet he was further than ever from
the thought of giving himself wholly to her, for the intenser his
feeling grew, the more clearly he recognised its character. This was
not love he suffered from, but mere desire. To let it have its way
would be to degrade Ida. Love might or might not follow, and how could
he place her at the mercy of such a chance as that? Her faith and trust
in him were absolute; could he take advantage of it for his own ends?
And, for all these fine arguments, Waymark saw with perfect clearness
how the matter would end. Self would triumph, and Ida, if the fates so
willed it, would be sacrificed. It was detestable, but a fact; as good
already as an accomplished fact.
And on the following morning Ida's note reached him. It was final. Her
entreaty that he would merely send money had no weight with him for a
moment; he felt that there was a contradiction between her words and
her wishes. This note explained the strangeness he had noticed in her
on their last evening together. He pitied her, and, as is so often the
case, pity was but fuel to passion. He swept from his mind all
obstinate debatings. Passion should be a law unto itself. Let the
future bring things about as it would.
He had risen late, and by the time he had finished a hasty breakfast it
was eleven o'clock. Half an hour after he went up the stairs of the
lodging-house and knocked at the familiar door.
But his knock met with no answer. Ida herself had left home an hour
before. Upon waking, and recalling what she had done, she foresaw that
Waymark would himself come, in spite of her request. She could not face
him. For all that her exhaustion was so great that walking was slow and
weary, she went out and strayed at first with no aim; but presently she
took the direction of Chelsea, and so came to Beaufort Street. She
would go in and see Harriet, who would give her something to eat. She
cared little now for letting it be known that she had left her
employment; with the step which she had at last taken, her position was
quite changed; she had only kept silence lest Waymark should come to
know. Harriet was at first surprised to see her then seemed glad.
"I've only a minute ago sent a note, asking you to be sure to come
round to-night. I wanted you to help me with this new hat; you have
such good taste in trimming."
Ida would have been astonished at another time; for Harriet to be
paying compliments was indeed something novel. There was a flush on the
latter's usually sallow face; she did not sit down, and kept moving
aimlessly about.
"Give me your hat and jacket," she said, "and let me take them into the
other room."
She took them away, and returned. Ida was not looking at her; otherwise
she must surely have noticed that weird pallor which had all at once
succeeded to the unhealthy flush, and the unwonted gleaming of her
eyes. Of what passed during those next two hours Ida had afterwards no
recollection. They ate together, and they talked, Ida as if in a dream,
Harriet preoccupied in a way quite out of her habit. Ida explained that
she was out of employment, news which could scarcely be news to the
listener, who would in that case have heard it with far less composure.
There were long silences, generally brought to an end by some outburst
of forced merriment from Harriet. Ida was without consciousness of
time, but her restless imagination at length compelled her to go forth
again. Harriet did not urge her to stay, but rose and watched her as
she went into the other room to put her things on. In a few moments
they had parted.
The instant Harriet, from the head of the stairs, heard the front-door
close, she ran back into her bed-room, put on her hat, and darted down.
Opening the door, she saw Ida moving away at a short distance. Turning
her eyes in the opposite direction, she perceived a policeman coming
slowly down the street. She ran towards him.
"I've caught her at last," she exclaimed, as she met him, pointing
eagerly after Ida. "She's taken a brooch of mine. I put it in a
particular place in my bed-room, and it's gone."
"Was she alone in the room?" inquired the constable, looking keenly at
Harriet, then down the street.
"Yes, she went in alone to put her things on. Be quick, or she'll be
off!"
"I understand you give her in charge?"
"Of course I do."
A brisk walk of two or three minutes, and they had caught up Ida, who
turned at the sound of the quick footsteps, and stood in surprise.
"This lady charges you with stealing some articles of hers," said the
constable, looking from face to face. "You must come with me to the
station."
Ida blanched. When the policeman had spoken, she turned to Harriet, and
gazed at her fixedly. She could neither speak nor move. The constable
touched her arm impatiently. Her eyes turned to him, and she began to
walk along by his side.
Harriet followed in silence. There were not many people on the way to
the police-station in King's Road, and they reached it speedily. They
came before the inspector, and the constable made his report.
"Have you got this brooch?" asked the inspector, looking at Ida.
Ida put her hand into one of her jacket-pockets, then into the other,
and from the second brought out the object in question. It was of gold,
and had been given by Julian to his wife just after their marriage. As
she laid it before her on the desk, she seemed about to speak, but her
breath failed, and she clutched with her hands at the nearest support.
"Look out," exclaimed the inspector. "Don't let her fall."
Five or six times, throughout the day and evening, Waymark had knocked
at Ida's door. About seven o'clock he had called at the Castis', but
found neither of them at home. Returning thence to Fulham, he had
walked for hours up and down, in vain expectation of Ida's coming.
There was no light at her window.
Just before midnight he reached home, having on his way posted a letter
with money in it. As he reached his door, Julian stood there, about to
knock.
"Anything amiss?" Waymark asked, examining his friend by the light of
the street-lamp.
Julian only made a sign to him to open the door. They went upstairs
together, and Waymark speedily obtained a light. Julian had seated
himself on the couch. His face was ghastly.
"What's the matter?" Waymark asked anxiously. "Do you know anything
about Ida?"
"She's locked up in the police cells," was the reply. "My wife has
accused her of stealing things from our rooms."
Waymark stared at him.
"Casti, what's the matter with you?" he exclaimed, overcome with fear,
in spite of his strong self-command. "Are you ill? Do you know what
you're saying?"
Julian rose and made an effort to control himself.
"I know what I'm saying, Waymark I've only just heard it. She has come
back home from somewhere--only just now--she seems to have been
drinking. It happened in the middle of the day, whilst I was at the
hospital. She gave her in charge to a policeman in the street, and a
brooch was found on her."
"A brooch found on her? Your wife's?"
"Yes. When she came in, she railed at me like a fury, and charged me
with the most monstrous things. I can't and won't go back there
to-night! I shall go mad if I hear her voice. I will walk about the
streets till morning."
"And you tell me that Ida Starr is in custody?"
"She is. My wife accuses her of stealing several things."
"And you believe this?" asked Waymark, under his voice, whilst his
thoughts pictured Ida's poverty, of which he had known nothing, and led
him through a long train of miserable sequences.
"I don't know. I can't say. She says that Ida confessed, and, gave the
brooch up at once. But her devilish malice is equal to anything. I see
into her character as I never did before. Good God, if you could have
seen her face as she told me! And Ida, Ida! I am afraid of myself,
Waymark. If I had stayed to listen another moment, I should have struck
her. It seemed as if every vein was bursting. How am I ever to live
with her again? I dare not! I should kill her in some moment of
madness! What will happen to Ida?"
He flung himself upon the couch, and burst into tears. Sobs convulsed
him; he writhed in an anguish of conflicting passions. Waymark seemed
scarcely to observe him, standing absorbed in speculation and the
devising of a course to be pursued.
"I must go to the police-station," he said at length, when the violence
of the paroxysm had passed and left Julian in the still exhaustion of
despair. "You, I think, had better stay here. Is there any danger of
her coming to seek you?"
Julian made a motion with his hand, otherwise lay still, his pale face
turned upwards.
"I shall be back very quickly," Waymark added, taking his hat. Then,
turning back for a moment, "You mustn't give way like this, old fellow;
this is horrible weakness. Dare I leave you alone?"
Julian stretched out his hand, and Waymark pressed it.