IN AMBUSH
Hitherto, Widdowson had entertained no grave mistrust of his wife. The
principles she had avowed, directly traceable as it seemed to her
friendship with the militant women in Chelsea, he disliked and feared;
but her conduct he fully believed to be above reproach. His jealousy
of Barfoot did not glance at Monica’s attitude towards the man; merely
at the man himself, whom he credited with native scoundreldom. Barfoot
represented to his mind a type of licentious bachelor; why, he could
not have made perfectly clear to his own understanding. Possibly the
ease of Everard’s bearing, the something aristocratic in his
countenance and his speech, the polish of his manner, especially in
formal converse with women, from the first gave offence to Widdowson’s
essentially middle-class sensibilities. If Monica were in danger at
all, it was, he felt convinced, from that quarter. The subject of his
wife’s intimate dialogue with Barfoot at the Academy still remained a
mystery to him. He put faith in her rebellious declaration that every
word might have been safely repeated in his hearing, but, be the matter
what it might, the manner of Barfoot’s talk meant evil. Of that
conviction he could not get rid.
He had read somewhere that a persistently jealous husband may not
improbably end by irritating an innocent wife into affording real
ground for jealousy. A man with small knowledge of the world is much
impressed by dicta such as these; they get into the crannies of his
mind, and thence direct the course of his thinking. Widdowson, before
his marriage, had never suspected the difficulty of understanding a
woman; had he spoken his serious belief on that subject, it would have
been found to represent the most primitive male conception of the
feminine being. Women were very like children; it was rather a task to
amuse them and to keep them out of mischief. Therefore the blessedness
of household toil, in especial the blessedness of child-bearing and all
that followed. Intimacy with Monica had greatly affected his views, yet
chiefly by disturbing them; no firmer ground offered itself to his
treading when he perforce admitted that his former standpoint was
every day assailed by some incontestable piece of evidence. Woman had
individual characters; that discovery, though not a very profound one,
impressed him with the force of something arrived at by independent
observation. Monica often puzzled him gravely; he could not find the
key to her satisfactions and discontents. To regard her simply as a
human being was beyond the reach of his intelligence. He cast the blame
of his difficulties upon sex, and paid more attention to the hints on
such topics afforded him by his reading. He would endeavour to keep his
jealousy out of sight, lest the mysterious tendency of the female
nature might prompt Monica to deliberate wrongdoing.
To-day for the first time there flashed across him the thought that
already he might have been deceived. It originated in a peculiarity of
Monica’s behaviour at luncheon. She ate scarcely anything; she seemed
hurried, frequently glancing at the clock; and she lost herself in
reverie. Discovering that his eye was upon her, she betrayed
uneasiness, and began to talk without considering what she meant to
say. All this might mean nothing more than her barely-concealed regret
at being obliged to leave London; but Widdowson remarked it with a
vivacity of feeling perhaps due to the excitement in which he had lived
for the past week. Perhaps the activity, the resolution to which he had
urged himself, caused a sharpening of his perceptions. And the very
thought, never out of his mind, that only a few days had to elapse
before he carried off his wife from the scene of peril, tended to make
him more vividly conscious of that peril. Certain it was that a
moment’s clairvoyance assailed his peace, and left behind it all manner
of ugly conjectures. Women—so said the books—are adepts at
dissimulation. Was it conceivable that Monica had taken advantage of
the liberty he had of late allowed her? If a woman could not endure a
direct, searching gaze, must it not imply some enormous
wickedness?—seeing that nature has armed them for this very trial.
In her setting forth for the railway station hurry was again evident,
and disinclination to exchange parting words. If the eagerness were
simple and honest, would she not have accepted his suggestion and have
gone in the morning?
For five minutes after her departure he stood in the hall, staring
before him. A new jealousy, a horrible constriction of the heart, had
begun to torture him. He went and walked about in the library, but
could not dispel his suffering. Vain to keep repeating that Monica was
incapable of baseness. Of that he was persuaded, but none the less a
hideous image returned upon his mental vision—a horror—a pollution of
thought.
One thing he could do to restore his sanity. He would walk over to
Lavender Hill, and accompany his wife on her return home. Indeed, the
mere difficulty of getting through the afternoon advised this project.
He could not employ himself, and knew that his imagination, once
inflamed, would leave him not a moment’s rest. Yes, he would walk to
Lavender Hill, and ramble about that region until Monica had had
reasonable time for talk with her sister.
About three o’clock there fell a heavy shower of rain. Strangely
against his habits, Widdowson turned into a quiet public-house, and sat
for a quarter of an hour at the bar, drinking a glass of whisky. During
the past week he had taken considerably more wine than usual at meals;
he seemed to need the support. Whilst sipping at his glass of spirits,
he oddly enough fell into talk with the barmaid, a young woman of some
charms, and what appeared to be unaffected modesty. Not for twenty
years had Widdowson conversed with a member of this sisterhood. Their
dialogue was made up of the most trifling of trivialities—weather, a
railway accident, the desirability of holidays at this season. And when
at length he rose and put an end to the chat it was with appreciable
reluctance.
“A good, nice sort of girl,” he went away saying to himself. “Pity she
should be serving at a bar—hearing doubtful talk, and seeing very
often vile sights. A nice, soft-spoken little girl.”
And he mused upon her remembered face with a complacency which soothed
his feelings.
Of a sudden he was checked by the conversion of his sentiment into
thought. Would he not have been a much happier man if he had married a
girl distinctly his inferior in mind and station? Provided she were
sweet, lovable, docile—such a wife would have spared him all the
misery he had known with Monica. From the first he had understood that
Monica was no representative shop-girl, and on that very account he had
striven so eagerly to win her. But it was a mistake. He had loved her,
still loved her, with all the emotion of which he was capable. How many
hours’ genuine happiness of soul had that love afforded him? The
minutest fraction of the twelve months for which she had been his wife.
And of suffering, often amounting to frantic misery, he could count
many weeks. Could such a marriage as this be judged a marriage at all,
in any true sense of the word?
“Let me ask myself a question. If Monica were absolutely free to choose
between continuing to live with me and resuming her perfect liberty,
can I persuade myself that she would remain my wife? She would not. Not
for a day, not for an hour. Of that I am morally convinced. And I
acknowledge the grounds of her dissatisfaction. We are unsuited to each
other. We do not understand each other. Our marriage is physical and
nothing more. My love—what is my love? I do not love her mind, her
intellectual part. If I did, this frightful jealousy from which I
suffer would be impossible. My ideal of the wife perfectly suited to me
is far liker that girl at the public-house bar than Monica. Monica’s
independence of thought is a perpetual irritation to me. I don’t know
what her thoughts really are, what her intellectual life signifies. And
yet I hold her to me with the sternest grasp. If she endeavoured to
release herself I should feel capable of killing her. Is not this a
strange, a brutal thing?”
Widdowson had never before reached this height of speculation. In the
moment, by the very fact, of admitting that Monica and he ought not to
be living together, he became more worthy of his wife’s companionship
than ever hitherto.
Well, he would exercise greater forbearance. He would endeavour to win
her respect by respecting the freedom she claimed. His recent
suspicions of her were monstrous. If she knew them, how her soul would
revolt from him! What if she took an interest in other men, perchance
more her equals than he? Why, had he not just been thinking of another
woman, reflecting that she, or one like her, would have made him a more
suitable wife than Monica? Yet this could not reasonably be called
unfaithfulness.
They were bound together for life, and their wisdom lay in mutual
toleration, the constant endeavour to understand each other aright—not
in fierce restraint of each other’s mental liberty. How many marriages
were anything more than mutual forbearance? Perhaps there ought not to
be such a thing as enforced permanence of marriage. This was daring
speculation; he could not have endured to hear it from Monica’s lips.
But—perhaps, some day, marriage would be dissoluble at the will of
either party to it. Perhaps the man who sought to hold a woman when she
no longer loved him would be regarded with contempt and condemnation.
What a simple thing marriage had always seemed to him, and how far from
simple he had found it! Why, it led him to musings which overset the
order of the world, and flung all ideas of religion and morality into
wildest confusion. It would not do to think like this. He was a man
wedded to a woman very difficult to manage—there was the practical
upshot of the matter. His duty was to manage her. He was responsible
for her right conduct. With intentions perfectly harmless, she might
run into unknown jeopardy—above all, just at this time when she was
taking reluctant leave of her friends. The danger justified him in
exceptional vigilance.
So, from his excursion into the realms of reason did he return to the
safe sphere of the commonplace. And now he might venture to press on
towards Mrs. Conisbee’s house, for it was half-past four, and already
Monica must have been talking with her sister for a couple of hours.
His knock at the door was answered by the landlady herself. She told of
Mrs. Widdowson’s arrival and departure. Ah, then Monica had no doubt
gone straight home again. But, as Miss Madden had returned, he would
speak with her.
“The poor lady isn’t very well, sir,” said Mrs. Conisbee, fingering the
hem of her apron.
“Not very well? But couldn’t I see her for a moment?”
Virginia answered this question by appearing on the staircase.
“Some one for me, Mrs. Conisbee?” she called from above. “Oh, is it
_you_, Edmund? So very glad! I’m sure Mrs. Conisbee will have the
kindness to let you come into her sitting-room. What a pity I was away
when Monica called! I’ve had—business to see to in town; and I’ve
walked and walked, until I’m really—hardly able—”
She sank upon a chair in the room, and looked fixedly at the visitor
with a broad, benevolent smile, her head moving up and down. Widdowson
was for a moment in perplexity. If the evidence of his eyes could be
trusted, Miss Madden’s indisposition pointed to a cause so strange that
it seemed incredible. He turned to look for Mrs. Conisbee, but the
landlady had hurriedly withdrawn, closing the door behind her.
“It is so foolish of me, Edmund,” Virginia rambled on, addressing him
with a familiarity she had never yet used. “When I am away from home I
forget all about my meals—really forget—and then all at once I find
that I am quite exhausted—quite exhausted—as you see. And the worst
of it is I have altogether lost my appetite by the time I get back. I
couldn’t eat a mouthful of food—not a mouthful—I assure you I
couldn’t. And it does so distress good Mrs. Conisbee. She is
exceedingly kind to me—exceedingly careful about my health. Oh, and in
Battersea Park Road I saw such a shocking sight; a great cart ran over
a poor little dog, and it was killed on the spot. It unnerved me
dreadfully. I do think, Edmund, those drivers ought to be more careful.
I was saying to Mrs. Conisbee only the other day—and that reminds me,
I do so want to know all about your visit to Clevedon. Dear, dear
Clevedon! And have you really taken a house there, Edmund? Oh, if we
could all end our days at Clevedon! You know that our dear father and
mother are buried in the old churchyard. You remember Tennyson’s lines
about the old church at Clevedon? Oh, and what did Monica decide
about—about—really, what _was_ I going to ask? It is so foolish of me
to forget that dinner-time has come and gone. I get so exhausted, and
even my memory fails me.”
He could doubt no longer. This poor woman had yielded to one of the
temptations that beset a life of idleness and solitude. His pity was
mingled with disgust.
“I only wished to tell you,” he said gravely, “that we have taken a
house at Clevedon—”
“You really _have_!” She clasped her hands together. “Whereabouts?”
“Near Dial Hill.”
Virginia began a rhapsody which her brother-in-law had no inclination
to hear. He rose abruptly.
“Perhaps you had better come and see us to-morrow.”
“But Monica left a message that she wouldn’t be at home for the next
few days, and that I wasn’t to come till I heard from her.”
“Not at home—? I think there’s a mistake.”
“Oh, impossible! We’ll ask Mrs. Conisbee.”
She went to the door and called. From the landlady Widdowson learnt
exactly what Monica had said. He reflected for a moment.
“She shall write to you then. Don’t come just yet. I mustn’t stay any
longer now.”
And with a mere pretence of shaking hands he abruptly left the house.
Suspicions thickened about him. He would have thought it utterly
impossible for Miss Madden to disgrace herself in this vulgar way, and
the appalling discovery affected his view of Monica. They were sisters;
they had characteristics in common, family traits, weaknesses. If the
elder woman could fall into this degradation, might there not be
possibilities in Monica’s character such as he had refused to
contemplate? Was there not terrible reason for mistrusting her? What
did she mean by her message to Virginia?
Black and haggard, he went home as fast as a hansom could take him. It
was half-past five when he reached the house. His wife was not here,
and had not been here.
At this moment Monica was starting by train from Bayswater, after her
parting with Bevis. Arrived at Victoria, she crossed to the main
station, and went to the ladies’ waiting-room for the purpose of
bathing her face. She had red, swollen eyes, and her hair was in slight
disorder. This done, she inquired as to the next train for Herne Hill.
One had just gone; another would leave in about a quarter of an hour.
A dreadful indecision was harassing her. Ought she, did she dare, to
return home at all? Even if her strength sufficed for simulating a
natural manner, could she consent to play so base a part?
There was but one possible alternative. She might go to Virginia’s
lodgings, and there remain, writing to her husband that she had left
him. The true cause need not be confessed. She would merely declare
that life with him had become intolerable to her, that she demanded a
release. Their approaching removal to Clevedon offered the occasion.
She would say that her endurance failed before that prospect of
solitude, and that, feeling as she did, it was dishonourable to make
longer pretence of doing her duty as a wife. Then, if Bevis wrote to
her in such a way as to revive her love, if he seriously told her to
come to him, all difficulties could be solved by her disappearance.
Was such revival of disheartened love a likely or a possible thing? At
this moment she felt that to flee in secret, and live with Bevis as he
proposed, would be no less dishonour than abiding with the man who had
a legal claim upon her companionship. Her lover, as she had thought of
him for the past two or three months, was only a figment of her
imagination; Bevis had proved himself a complete stranger to her mind;
she must reshape her knowledge of him. His face was all that she could
still dwell upon with the old desire; nay, even that had suffered a
change.
Insensibly the minutes went by. Whilst she sat in the waiting-room her
train started; and when she had become aware of that, her irresolution
grew more tormenting.
Suddenly there came upon her a feeling of illness, of nausea.
Perspiration broke out on her forehead; her eyes dazzled; she had to
let her head fall back. It passed, but in a minute or two the fit again
seized her, and with a moan she lost consciousness.
Two or three women who were in the room rendered assistance. The
remarks they exchanged, though expressing uncertainty and discreetly
ambiguous, would have been significant to Monica. On her recovery,
which took place in a few moments, she at once started up, and with
hurried thanks to those about her, listening to nothing that was said
and answering no inquiry, went out on to the platform. There was just
time to catch the train now departing for Herne Hill.
She explained her fainting fit by the hours of agitation through which
she had passed. There was no room for surprise. She had suffered
indescribably, and still suffered. Her wish was to get back into the
quietness of home, to rest and to lose herself in sleep.
* * * * * * * * * *
On entering, she saw nothing of her husband. His hat hung on the
hall-tree, and he was perhaps sitting in the library; the more genial
temper would account for his not coming forth at once to meet her, as
had been his custom when she returned from an absence alone.
She changed her dress, and disguised as far as was possible the traces
of suffering on her features. Weakness and tremor urged her to lie
down, but she could not venture to do this until she had spoken to her
husband. Supporting herself by the banisters, she slowly descended, and
opened the library door. Widdowson was reading a newspaper. He did not
look round, but said carelessly,—
“So you are back?”
“Yes. I hope you didn’t expect me sooner.”
“Oh, it’s all right.” He threw a rapid glance at her over his shoulder.
“Had a long talk with Virginia, I suppose?”
“Yes. I couldn’t get away before.”
Widdowson seemed to be much interested in some paragraph. He put his
face closer to the paper, and was silent for two or three seconds. Then
he again looked round, this time observing his wife steadily, but with
a face that gave no intimation of unusual thoughts.
“Does she consent to go?”
Monica replied that it was still uncertain; she thought, however, that
Virginia’s objections would be overcome.
“You look very tired,” remarked the other.
“I am, very.”
And thereupon she withdrew, unable to command her countenance, scarce
able to remain standing for another moment.