CAPTAIN CARDEN found himself in an unusual and delightful situation: he
had something to say, and that something interested various people.
Launa had attracted a certain amount of attention, from the British
matron upwards, but being a Canadian, which, after all, is as bad as
being an American, all things were expected of her, and being rich, all
things were forgiven her. She had appropriated young men, but seemed to
prefer quality to quantity.
Since her father’s death, she had lived in great seclusion. The world
gave her no credit for it, it was the seclusion, no doubt, of one who is
well amused. People talked uncertainly to her about art and music, for
it was rumoured that she was composing, and in truth she was working and
having lessons from Herr Donau.
Captain Carden had never forgiven her laugh that night. Ridicule to this
gallant son of Mars was torture. He sallied forth garnished with
importance, and carrying a full card-case to call on his many friends.
He went first to Lady Blake’s. He had murmured to many people, “Have you
heard about Miss Archer?”
He had no cause to think that Lady Blake would receive him with rapture,
but his news would interest her.
Lady Blake was at home. She was alone and hating it, so she welcomed
Captain Carden with joy. Her last party had been a failure. Mr.
Wainbridge had plainly taken no interest in her latest quarrel with her
husband, and Herr Donau talked of nothing but Miss Archer’s wonderful
execution. Captain Carden was a man, and as such, available for
conquest, and she welcomed him as a relief to her feelings.
They talked of the weather, of the opera, and finally he mentioned
Launa.
“Is there no other girl in London? Must you all talk of her?”
“Why?” he asked. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what? Tell me,” she said.
“I thought you knew. I really cannot tell you.”
“I never would believe anything about another woman, it is so cruel to
one’s own self—so low, I think. Unless, of course, it were absolutely
true, and then I should feel sorry.”
She uttered her words with a sublime air of pity.
“Yes; I know you would. Still, some women—”
“Some women?”
“Are queer.”
“Are they?” she inquired.
“Free—strange in their ideas of propriety. Miss Archer is, I think.”
“We all know that Canadians are free. Canada is not exactly a
Republic—not a Monarchy. The country has no institutions, and that must
affect the women—don’t you think so?”
She had the sweetest, most appealing way of saying “don’t you think so,”
with an accent on the “don’t” and on the “you” which men and old women
found very attractive.
“There is an atmosphere of a wigwam and the wilderness about them, that
is the reason men like them—before they marry them.”
“They skate so well, too,” he said. “Have you been skating? I spent a
day or two at Polton. I met Miss Archer with Mr. Wainbridge, and they
were staying together at the inn. She skates splendidly.”
He then said “Good-bye,” and left her considering the subject and all
its various possibilities. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge together at the same
hotel. There is only one way in which a man and a woman can be staying
together at an hotel. Either they are married or they ought to be. She
laughed and told her next visitor.
Captain Carden then went to see Mrs. Herbert. Sir Ralph, Mr. George, and
various other men were there, and two women.
Captain Carden, quietly but sorrowfully, related his story to Mrs.
Herbert.
“Miss Archer and Mr. Wainbridge!” she repeated, “alone at the inn. Well,
what matter? If they like to be foolish, why shouldn’t they? It sounds
very terrible; but if I were you, Captain Carden, I would not repeat it.
Let it go. Believe me, the path of a reformer is a difficult one, and
reformation is uninteresting, especially if it is impossible. Good-bye,”
she added. “I am sorry you have to go.”
Sir Ralph and Mr. George stayed after everyone had left, and talked.
Mrs. Herbert did not believe Captain Carden’s story, at least not in the
way he wanted her to; but she was jealous of Launa, and rather glad to
hear anything to her discredit. She turned to Mr. George, and asked:
“How is your Proverb book?”
“Not progressing very rapidly,” he answered. “I have taken to
interviewing. I find it more amusing.”
“Whom do you interview?”
“Young and interesting women—the women of the future.”
“Is it true what they are saying of Launa?” she asked.
“What do they say?”
“That she and Mr. Wainbridge were alone at Polton together at the hotel
there.”
“Well?”
“That is all. You must acknowledge that if a girl stays with a man at a
country hotel—”
“A country hotel! Is that bad?” he interrupted. “The town is always
respectable. I understand. What a pity they had not stayed at the Grand
or the Metropole. I am so glad I live in town. Aren’t you, Egerton?”
“Rubbish,” she replied. “You misunderstand me.”
“Not at all. Tell me more,” said George.
“I am worried about Launa. Her reputation will suffer.”
Sir Ralph rose and said:
“Good-bye—to-morrow at ten.”
He hated the mere idea of moral reflections.
“Has Launa a reputation yet?” asked George. “A woman must be talked
about for three seasons, and have four married men in love with her.
That is a reputation. It is eating your cake and having it too, and you
are endeavouring to do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me what they say of Launa. They say far worse of you. They say
Sir Ralph lives here—not that you stay in the same hotel—by accident,
simultaneously—which happened to her. They say that Buxton and Sir
Ralph are partners, and that Herbert is useful. It is like the women in
the Bible, you remember? ‘We will eat our own bread and wear our own
apparel, only let us be called by thy name.’ Herbert gives the name.”
“You had better go,” she said. “You are a coward to say all these things
to a woman. You would not dare say them if I were a man, or if Jack were
here.”
“No; but he seldom is here, and he is useful as a shelter. I would not
have said this if you had not made me angry about Launa. She is one of
the best women I ever knew.”
“Your experience then is limited.”
“Good-bye. You live in too large a glass-house to throw stones, unless
you are absolutely reckless and desire the smashing of your own roof.”
With this he left her, and she sat and thought it all over. She was very
angry with Mr. George, and yet she laughed. She felt so absolutely sure
of herself, and knew her husband was the one man in the world she loved.
These others were merely to keep herself from thinking—they were to her
what embroidery is to some women. Why should people talk of her? And Mr.
George—what a brute he was!
What she hardly dared acknowledge to herself was her husband’s daily
increasing indifference. He had been away since the 16th, and he had not
told her where he was going.
Was he often with Launa? Jealousy, a raging, burning hatred of the woman
who was liked so much, filled her mind, and she stamped her foot with
rage. Then she wanted to cry. To feel herself powerless, to know herself
mistaken, both were new emotions, both were uncomfortably true and
horrible.
Marriage, she reflected, was always a failure; to keep one’s husband as
a lover is impossible. At this moment Mr. Herbert came in.
“You!” she exclaimed, with mixed feelings of pleasure and surprise.
“You are alone?”
“How do you do?” she said. She always remembered the observances of
polite society. “I am alone. Look behind the curtain or under the sofa
if you think I have a man hidden anywhere.”
She resisted an impulse which said, “Speak, say you love him.” He looked
in one of his critical moods, so she summoned all her energies to her
aid and crushed away any feeling she possessed.
“I am very well,” he answered. He looked tired. “I am going to Cairo
to-night to do some writing for the _Signal_.”
“You are going . . . and I?”
“You will stay here,” he answered, with cheerful unconcern. “You have
all you want.”
“All—Jack! don’t go. They say—I will even live in a house with
stairs.”
“You have heard! What have you heard?”
She got up and came near him.
“I shall miss you terribly.”
“You want me to stay?”
“Yes, I do want you to stay with me, or I will go with you.”
“This is only a mood—to show your own power. When I come back, in six
months, then we shall see.”
“Six months? And I am to wait. No, thank you. You will have lost me for
ever then. Oh! you are cruel.”
“You are mistaken; I am not cruel. We have tried our experiment, and it
has failed for me—for you, perhaps it is what you wanted. It will be
all the better for you if I am not here. They—the all-powerful—will
say less about you, if you are decently careful. Have you seen anything
of Launa? Perhaps you will be good to her.”
“To Launa? What is she to you?”
“My friend. You cannot understand that. I—”
“A man is never the friend of a woman.”
“You have no friends then?”
“I—I am different. Why should I console her for your departure? Is she
broken-hearted?”
“No,” he replied. “Why will you misunderstand me?”
“Isn’t it enough for her to have Mr. Wainbridge, and to stay at hotels
with him alone.”
“Take care what you say, and what you insinuate. Launa is perfectly
innocent, she never stayed at an hotel—that is, lived with Mr.
Wainbridge as you suggest. Someone may have seen them dining together.
You dine with men sometimes. But I must go now.”
She walked up and down in front of him. She was like a panther, with the
same quick, nervous, gliding steps, and she was raging. She wore a
tea-gown; he had once admired it. The light accentuated her piercing
eyes, her mocking red lips.
“I shall not come to you until you send for me,” he said.
“And I shall never send for you. Marriage is a mistake. You believe all
they say of me. I have never kissed any man but you, I did love you, I
might love you if—”
“Your virtue in not kissing men is wonderful, but they may kiss you. I
believe nothing about you, nor in your love for me, nor for anyone.”
“Daily life is so absorbing, the fine dust sifts in and deadens all
feeling,” she said sadly.
“Does it? Well, now I must say good-bye.”
He took her hand.
“I trust you always. I cannot stay in this way. It is best for me to go
and to forget.”
And so he left her.
She threw herself down on her sofa and buried her face in the cushions.
“Best to go and to forget—to go and to forget.” This was the reward of
a Regenerator of Matrimony.
That night Mrs. Herbert went to a dance. The waltzes all seemed to be
played to the measure of a train—every minute took him further away—in
intervals, when she was not talking, she composed letters which she
never sent, and she hated herself for having let him go. Where was her
power? Had she lost it?
She tried to use it on Sir Ralph, and the result more than justified her
expectations.
“You deserve a good scolding,” said Mr. George, when he asked for a
dance and she refused to give it to him. “You are eating your cake now.
I hope it is bitter. Jack has gone.”
Sir Ralph went home with her, but he did not go in, as she shook hands
by the lift and thanked him in an absent-minded, perfunctory way. Then
she went to her room and wept.
She was a fool. It was all too horrible. The next morning life was not
worth living, it was black and dreary. Excitement and Sir Ralph were all
she had left. She was jealous of the unknown, of Jack’s gladstone bag,
and of his boots, of everything; and then she remembered Launa, and she
was jealous of her. It was quite delightful to find a person to hurt,
someone tangible at whom to throw speeches. Mrs. Herbert resolved to
rise early, and go to see Launa.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Captain Carden’s remarks and suggestions had an effect. Mr.
Wainbridge noticed it—men looked coldly or with a certain amount of
curiosity at him—some women turned the other way, others were
interested. He did not realise the meaning of this, until Mr. George
brought it before him. Mr. George was by no means one of the crowd. He
knew Launa well; it was doubtful whether she had refused him or not. He
adored Sylvia now. He frequented Launa’s abode, scolded her when she
appeared weary, and forbade her to sit up late. By this time people said
that Miss Archer and Mr. Wainbridge had spent a week in Paris together,
as Mr. and Mrs. Claude.
Mr. Wainbridge heard this tale in silence, and at the end he expressed
himself as anxious to horsewhip the whole town. Mr. George reminded him
that the town is large, and chiefly composed of women.
“Damn them,” said Mr. Wainbridge, briefly but expressively.
“That relieves your feelings,” said Mr. George, “and is of no other
avail. You must be accepted or refused by Launa sooner than you meant to
be.”
“But she will not do either—and if she hears or guesses—she will be
hard to manage. Don’t you suppose I would have married her long ago, if
she would have had me?”
“You have been prolonging the joys of uncertainty—an engagement is an
uncertain certainty—marriage is a certain uncertainty. It has claims,
sure and everlasting I know, but they are unattractive.”
Launa was rearranging her books when Mr. Wainbridge called to see her
after this conversation.
“I feel particularly depressed to-day,” she said, “so I am clearing up.
That will produce a halo of virtue. I have tidied my work basket, and
arranged my music. Now I will play to you.”
She went to the piano and began to play. It was something strong and
full of power—urging, urging what seems to be the search for
happiness—on and on—like life—it went full of longings and regrets,
until suddenly a clear still melody rang out, the Never Never country at
last.
Mr. Wainbridge went over to her. The music thrilled him.
“How beautifully you play!”
He looked down at her. She was young, strong, beautiful, and a wild
feeling for her swept over him; all the love and passion that was in the
music seemed to be one with him. He loved her, loved her, loved her, and
he had kept it down. It had never held full sway; not until this day had
he felt quite powerless to control himself. She must be his. The longing
of weeks and days engulfed him, and he tried to speak.
“Dearest—Launa. I love you. God forgive me, I love you more than my
soul.”
He fell on his knees beside her, his head in his hands.
“Don’t,” she said, “don’t,” putting out her hand. There was aversion in
her voice.
“What, don’t love you? That is impossible. I beg you, I pray you to give
me your love. Trust me, help me.”
“My love. Oh! love—what is it? Listen, I cannot tell you what I
feel. . . . I do not love you. I am at peace when I am with you—I trust
you; that is all.”
“And you will always.” He took her hand and kissed it. “My beautiful
lady, you are mine, _mine_. How can I be glad enough?”
“Don’t be . . . anything.”
“Do you love me?”
“I trust you. I do not want you to kiss me.”
He laughed a little.
“What is love?” she asked.
“Madness.”
“Peace,” she replied.
“Yes, peace. Oh! my dearest, with you, peace.”
He rose from her side. She let her hands go over the keys, playing
snatches of things. The prelude to tea appeared, the table and the
cloth.
Mr. Wainbridge walked to the window, and Launa was playing “Warum.” “Das
bange bittere Warum,” with its ceaseless unanswered questions. It was
one of the things she had always played and felt she had not understood.
Through what a century of emotions she had gone, and “Warum” brought her
back. She understood it now as she never had done before.
She had been drifting down a rapid quiet stream, hurrying past the old
landmarks, soothed by the swift dark water, lulled by its swirl, and
rush, comforted by Mr. Wainbridge’s care of her and for her. Now she was
out on the sea, the broad sea of love, with its indefiniteness. She had
awakened with a start to find herself there; to know that he loved her
and wanted to marry her, and she also knew that to turn back was
impossible.
“I am so happy, my darling,” he said, turning round as he spoke. “I have
loved you for so long, and I have feared.”
“Feared what?”
“I feared you. That you did not care, and you do not care as I do.”
“No,” she replied; “I do not, I cannot care as you do. Why is it? I want
to, and I want to remember only you. Only I can’t, I can’t.”
“You do not want to remember the old life?”
“I want to forget everything, everyone. Listen, I must tell you—I don’t
want to marry you, because I cannot bear it, because I’ve once loved—”
she stopped; he waited—“I once loved someone else. I think he is dead
to me—but I know if he were to call me I would go, even if I married
you and he came. I have forgotten him sometimes, but it all comes back
again and again.”
“I will make you love me—he is dead; he will never come. You will marry
me, you will? Promise—you can’t draw back now.”
“I promise to marry you? I cannot forget so soon—”
“You promise?”
“Yes. Now you will have tea?”
“Mrs. Herbert,” said the maid.
“How are you?” cried Launa, with joy. An interruption just then was most
convenient. “You have not been here for so long.”
Mr. Wainbridge could have borne a longer absence with philosophy. He
gave Mrs. Herbert one glance, and looked again. She was looking handsome
and flushed, yet the emotion which plainly affected her savoured not of
joy nor of peace.
“I have not been here since you—how long is it since you were away?”
said Mrs. Herbert. “Did you enjoy yourself? What were you doing?
Skating?”
“It seems so long ago,” said Launa. “To-day has been so warm. Who could
believe we have ever skated?”
“Yes, who?” inquired Mrs. Herbert. “The ice has gone, and the
skate-marks are melted; there is no track on the water.”
“I hear Herbert has gone to Cairo,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Has he?” asked Launa. “How horrible for you.”
It is a wife’s duty to feel horribly something at her husband’s
departure for Egypt or Hong-Kong, and Launa expressed the proper
sympathy in her voice.
“He did not tell you?” asked Mrs. Herbert.
“No,” answered Launa.
“He did,” said Mrs. Herbert, with some excitement.
She had refused tea.
There was silence. Mr. Wainbridge glanced at Launa. His look infuriated
Mrs. Herbert, whose anger threatened to become quite beyond her power of
control.
“I came to-day, Launa, to tell you that I will no longer know you. You
have poisoned my husband’s mind against me, and a girl who goes to the
country and stays alone there with a man, under his name, as his—well,
I leave the name to you.”
Mr. Wainbridge jumped up. Launa grew scarlet—bright, flaming red, up,
up, into her hair. Mrs. Herbert was mad with anger; she wanted a whip,
to hear it lashed, to make a noise with it, and hurt somebody. She
clenched her hands violently.
“Miss Archer has just promised to be my wife,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “and
she would prefer you left us. As for me, I hope you will never come into
her house again; you certainly never shall enter mine.”
He rang the bell.
“Bah!” said Mrs. Herbert. “Virtue is not always triumphant. You made him
love you—you took him from me!”
“Open the door for Mrs. Herbert,” said Mr. Wainbridge to the maid.
Mrs. Herbert rose.
“Your announcement is rather late. You may as well marry her—now.”
“What does she mean?” asked Launa, in a bewildered way. She had risen
and stood in front of Mr. Wainbridge, her eyes on his face. “Do they say
things about me? Do they?”
He did not answer her question. He had nothing to say.
Launa heard a step and turned round quickly to see if Mrs. Herbert were
returning.
“Paul! Paul!” she cried. There was joy in her voice which Mr. Wainbridge
had never heard in it before. “Oh, Paul!” She moved quickly towards him
and gave him her hand. “I am so glad, so glad. When did you come? Why
did you not come long ago?”
Mr. Wainbridge inspected Paul Harvey during this crisis. He was brown,
strong, and lithe; standing by him Mr. Wainbridge appeared weak,
effeminate.
“This is Mr. Wainbridge,” said Launa.
She wished him just then at Cairo or anywhere else.
“How do you do?” said both men.
“Miss Archer has just promised to marry me.”
He wore an air of ownership and went nearer Launa. There was a slight
degree of defiance in his attitude.
“I congratulate you,” said Paul; “you are very lucky. The most fortunate
of men.”
“Sit down,” said Launa, with a smile at Paul which Mr. Wainbridge
endeavoured to imagine was merely kind. Launa assured herself that hers
was the smile of a married woman to some brother of whom she is fond.
“Tell me about home, about ‘Solitude,’ about the canoe, and the rivers.”
They talked, while Mr. Wainbridge listened, not uninterested, but
surprised. Launa was new, different. Paul had introduced another element
into the game—an element of doubt.
“But I shall win,” thought Mr. Wainbridge; “she has promised.”
“I have known Paul for years,” said Launa, turning to Mr. Wainbridge, as
if to explain the situation, and he knows all about the land I dwelt in
and my old home.”
This explanation was as much for Paul as for Mr. Wainbridge, and also
for herself. She was convinced now of good reasons for her joy.
The returned traveller’s welcome was delightful to Paul more than he had
dared hope for, less than that for which he longed, though to be
received as the friend of the family was not his only aspiration. It was
the stone instead of the bread, the hand of fellowship instead of the
kiss of passion. He left Mr. Wainbridge with Launa, no doubt waiting for
his kiss. Paul winced at the idea, and he was dining with the Canadian
Commissioner.
But Mr. Wainbridge did not kiss Launa—he left her alone. She threw
herself down on the sofa. The idea of marriage had appealed to her as a
narcotic. Paul’s coming had changed it into a scourge. He was here;
perhaps the girl was dead! She flushed with joy, then hid her face with
shame. Perhaps he did not love her, had never loved her, and she
belonged to Mr. Wainbridge. Paul had found her—and it was too late.