A NEW BEGINNING
Widdowson tried two or three lodgings; he settled at length in a small
house at Hampstead; occupying two plain rooms. Here, at long intervals,
his friend Newdick came to see him, but no one else. He had brought
with him a selection of solid books from his library, and over these
the greater part of each day was spent. Not that he studied with any
zeal; reading, and of a kind that demanded close attention, was his
only resource against melancholia; he knew not how else to occupy
himself. Adam Smith’s classical work, perused with laborious
thoroughness, gave him employment for a couple of months; subsequently
he plodded through all the volumes of Hallam.
His landlady, and the neighbours who were at leisure to observe him
when he went out for his two hours’ walk in the afternoon, took him for
an old gentleman of sixty-five or so. He no longer held himself
upright, and when out of doors seldom raised his eyes from the ground;
grey streaks had begun to brindle his hair; his face grew yellower and
more deeply furrowed. Of his personal appearance, even of cleanliness,
he became neglectful, and occasionally it happened that he lay in bed
all through the morning, reading, dozing, or in a state of mental
vacuity.
It was long since he had seen his relative, the sprightly widow; but he
had heard from her. On the point of leaving England for her summer
holiday, Mrs. Luke sent him a few lines, urging him, in the language of
the world, to live more sensibly, and let his wife “have her head” now
and then; it would be better for both of them. Then followed the time
of woe, and for many weeks he gave no thought to Mrs. Luke. But close
upon the end of the year he received one day a certain society journal,
addressed in a hand he knew to the house at Herne Hill. In it was
discoverable, marked with a red pencil, the following paragraph.
“Among the English who this year elected to take their repose and
recreation at Trouville there was no more brilliant figure than Mrs.
Luke Widdowson. This lady is well known in the _monde_ where one never
_s’ennuie_; where smart people are gathered together, there is the
charming widow sure to be seen. We are able to announce that, before
leaving Trouville, Mrs. Widdowson had consented to a private engagement
with Capt. William Horrocks—no other, indeed, than “Captain Bill,” the
universal favourite, so beloved by hostesses as a sure dancing man. By
the lamented death of his father, this best of good fellows has now
become Sir William, and we understand that his marriage will be
celebrated after the proper delays. Our congratulations!”
Subsequently arrived a newspaper with an account of the marriage. Mrs.
Luke was now Lady Horrocks: she had the title desired of her heart.
Another two months went by, and there came a letter—re-addressed, like
the other communications, at the post office—in which the baronet’s
wife declared herself anxious to hear of her friends. She found they
had left Herne Hill; if this letter reached him, would not Edmund come
and see her at her house in Wimpole Street?
Misery of solitude, desire for a woman’s sympathy and counsel, impelled
him to use this opportunity, little as it seemed to promise. He went to
Wimpole Street and had a very long private talk with Lady Horrocks,
who, in some way he could not understand, had changed from her old
self. She began frivolously, but in rather a dull, make-believe way;
and when she heard that Widdowson had parted from his wife, when a few
vague, miserable words had suggested the domestic drama so familiar to
her observation, she at once grew quiet, sober, sympathetic, as if
really glad to have something serious to talk about.
“Now look here, Edmund. Tell the whole story from the first. You’re the
sort of man to make awful blunders in such a case as this. Just tell me
all about it. I’m not a bad sort, you know, and I have troubles of my
own—I don’t mind telling you so much. Women make fools of
themselves—well, never mind. Just tell me about the little girl, and
see if we can’t square things somehow.”
He had a struggle with himself, but at length narrated everything,
often interrupted by shrewd questions.
“No one writes to you?” the listener finally inquired.
“I am expecting to hear from them,” was Widdowson’s answer, as he sat
in the usual position, head hanging forward and hands clasped between
his knees.
“To hear what?”
“I think I shall be sent for.”
“Sent for? To make it up?”
“She is going to give birth to a child.”
Lady Horrocks nodded twice thoughtfully, and with a faint smile.
“How did you find this out?”
“I have known it long enough. Her sister Virginia told me before they
went away. I had a suspicion all at once, and I forced her to tell me.”
“And if you are sent for shall you go?”
Widdowson seemed to mutter an affirmative, and added,—
“I shall hear what she has to tell me, as she promised.”
“Is it—is it possible—?”
The lady’s question remained incomplete. Widdowson, though he
understood it, vouchsafed no direct answer. Intense suffering was
manifest in his face, and at length he spoke vehemently.
“Whatever she tells me—how can I believe it? When once a woman has
lied how can she ever again be believed? I can’t be sure of anything.”
“All that fibbing,” remarked Lady Horrocks, “has an unpleasant look. No
denying it. She got entangled somehow. But I think you had better
believe that she pulled up just in time.”
“I have no love for her left,” he went on in a despairing voice. “It
all perished in those frightful days. I tried hard to think that I
still loved her. I kept writing letters—but they meant nothing—or
they only meant that I was driven half crazy by wretchedness. I had
rather we lived on as we have been doing. It’s miserable enough for me,
God knows; but it would be worse to try and behave to her as if I could
forget everything. I know her explanation won’t satisfy me. Whatever it
is I shall still suspect her. I don’t know that the child is mine. It
may be. Perhaps as it grows up there will be a likeness to help me to
make sure. But what a life! Every paltry trifle will make me uneasy;
and if I discovered any fresh deceit I should do something terrible.
You don’t know how near I was—”
He shuddered and hid his face.
“The Othello business won’t do,” said Lady Horrocks not unkindly. “You
couldn’t have gone on together, of course; you had to part for a time.
Well, that’s all over; take it as something that couldn’t be helped.
You were behaving absurdly, you know; I told you plainly; I guessed
there’d be trouble. You oughtn’t to have married at all, that’s the
fact; it would be better for most of us if we kept out of it. Some
marry for a good reason, some for a bad, and mostly it all comes to the
same in the end. But there, never mind. Pull yourself together, dear
boy. It’s all nonsense about not caring for her. Of course you’re
eating your heart out for want of her. And I’ll tell you what I think:
it’s very likely Monica was pulled up just in time by discovering—you
understand?—that she was more your wife than any one else’s. Something
tells me that’s how it was. Just try to look at it in that way. If the
child lives she’ll be different. She has sowed her wild oats—why
shouldn’t a woman as well as a man? Go down to Clevedon and forgive
her. You’re an honest man, and it isn’t every woman—never mind. I
could tell you stories about people—but you wouldn’t care to hear
them. Just take things with a laugh—we _all_ have to. Life’s as you
take it: all gloom or moderately shiny.”
With much more to the same solacing effect. For the time Widdowson was
perchance a trifle comforted; at all events, he went away with a sense
of gratitude to Lady Horrocks. And when he had left the house he
remembered that not even a civil formality with regard to Sir William
had fallen from his lips. But Sir William’s wife, for whatever reason,
had also not once mentioned the baronet’s name.
* * *
Only a few days passed before Widdowson received the summons he was
expecting. It came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to his
wife; not a word of news added. At the time of its arrival he was
taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether he could
get to Paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would enable him
to reach Clevedon that night. He managed it, with only two or three
minutes to spare.
Not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his
thoughts on the end of the journey. An inexpressible repugnance then
affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any
injury which might prevent his going to Monica at such a time. Often,
in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had confused and
darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. If the child, perhaps
already born, were in truth his, it must be very long before he could
regard it with a shadow of paternal interest; uncertainty, to which he
was condemned, would in all likelihood make it an object of aversion to
him as long as he lived.
He was at Bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a slow
train, which by ten o’clock brought him to Yatton, the little junction
for Clevedon. It was a fine starry night, but extremely cold. For the
few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about the platform. His
chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go well with Monica.
Whether he could believe what she had to tell him or not, it would be
worse if she were to die before he could hear her exculpation. The
anguish of remorse would seize upon him.
Alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards
and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped out.
No cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and hastened
with all speed in the direction that he remembered. But very soon the
crossways had confused him. As he met no one whom he could ask to
direct him, he had to knock at a door. Streaming with perspiration, he
came at length within sight of his own house. A church clock was
striking eleven.
Alice and Virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was
opened; they beckoned him into a room.
“Is it over?” he asked, staring from one to the other with his dazzled
eyes.
“At four this afternoon,” answered Alice, scarce able to articulate. “A
little girl.”
“She had to have chloroform,” said Virginia, who looked a miserable,
lifeless object, and shook like one in an ague.
“And all’s well?”
“We think so—we hope so,” they stammered together.
Alice added that the doctor was to make another call to-night. They had
a good nurse. The infant seemed healthy, but was a very, very little
mite, and had only made its voice heard for a few minutes.
“She knows you sent for me?”
“Yes. And we have something to give you. You were to have this as soon
as you arrived.”
Miss Madden handed him a sealed envelope; then both the sisters drew
away, as if fearing the result of what they had done. Widdowson just
glanced at the unaddressed missive and put it into his pocket.
“I must have something to eat,” he said, wiping his forehead. “When the
doctor comes I’ll see him.”
This visit took place while he was engaged on his supper. On coming
down from the patient the doctor gave him an assurance that things were
progressing “fairly well”; the morning, probably, would enable him to
speak with yet more confidence. Widdowson had another brief
conversation with the sisters, then bade them good-night, and went to
the room that had been prepared for him. As he closed the door he heard
a thin, faint wail, and stood listening until it ceased; it came from a
room on the floor below.
Having brought himself with an effort to open the envelope he had
received, he found several sheets of notepaper, one of them, remarked
immediately, in a man’s writing. At this he first glanced, and the
beginning showed him that it was a love-letter written to Monica. He
threw it aside and took up the other sheets, which contained a long
communication from his wife; it was dated two months ago. In it Monica
recounted to him, with scrupulous truthfulness, the whole story of her
relations with Bevis.
“I only make this confession”—so she concluded—“for the sake of the
poor child that will soon be born. The child is yours, and ought not to
suffer because of what I did. The enclosed letter will prove this to
you, if anything can. For myself I ask nothing. I don’t think I shall
live. If I do I will consent to anything you propose. I only ask you to
behave without any pretence; if you cannot forgive me, do not make a
show of it. Say what your will is, and that shall be enough”.
He did not go to bed that night. There was a fire in the room, and he
kept it alight until daybreak, when he descended softly to the hall and
let himself out of the house.
In a fierce wind that swept from the north-west down the foaming
Channel, he walked for an hour or two, careless whither the roads
directed him. All he desired was to be at a distance from that house,
with its hideous silence and the faint cry that could scarcely be
called a sound. The necessity of returning, of spending days there, was
an oppression which held him like a nightmare.
Monica’s statement he neither believed nor disbelieved; he simply could
not make up his mind about it. She had lied to him so resolutely
before; was she not capable of elaborate falsehood to save her
reputation and protect her child? The letter from Bevis might have been
a result of conspiracy between them.
That Bevis was the man against whom his jealousy should have been
directed at first astounded him. By now he had come to a full
perception of his stupidity in never entertaining such a thought. The
revelation was equivalent to a second offence just discovered; for he
found it impossible to ignore his long-cherished suspicion of Barfoot,
and he even surmised the possibility of Monica’s having listened to
love-making from that quarter previously to her intimacy with Bevis. He
loathed the memory of his life since marriage; and as for pardoning his
wife, he could as soon pardon and smile upon the author of that
accursed letter from Bordeaux.
But go back to the house he must. By obeying his impulse, and
straightway returning to London, he might be the cause of a fatal turn
in Monica’s illness. Constraint of bare humanity would keep him here
until his wife was out of danger. But he could not see her, and as soon
as possible he must escape from such unendurable circumstances.
Re-entering at half-past eight, he was met by Alice, who seemed to have
slept as little as he himself had done. They went into the dining-room.
“She has been inquiring about you,” began Miss Madden timorously.
“How is she?”
“Not worse, I believe. But so very weak. She wishes me to ask you—”
“What?”
His manner did not encourage the poor woman.
“I shall be obliged to tell her something. If I have nothing to say she
will fret herself into a dangerous state. She wants to know if you have
read her letter, and if—if you will see the child.”
Widdowson turned away and stood irresolute. He felt Miss Madden’s hand
upon his arm.
“Oh, don’t refuse! Let me give her some comfort.”
“It’s the child she’s anxious about?”
Alice admitted it, looking into her brother-in-law’s face with woeful
appeal.
“Say I will see it,” he answered, “and have it brought into some
room—then say I _have_ seen it.”
“Mayn’t I take her a word of forgiveness?”
“Yes, say I forgive her. She doesn’t wish me to go to her?”
Alice shook her head.
“Then say I forgive her.”
As he directed so it was done; and in the course of the morning Miss
Madden brought word to him that her sister had experienced great
relief. She was sleeping.
But the doctor thought it necessary to make two visits before
nightfall, and late in the evening he came again. He explained to
Widdowson that there were complications, not unlikely to be dangerous,
and finally he suggested that, if the morrow brought no decided
improvement, a second medical man should be called in to consult. This
consultation was held. In the afternoon Virginia came weeping to her
brother-in-law, and told him that Monica was delirious. That night the
whole household watched. Another day was passed in the gravest anxiety,
and at dusk the medical attendant no longer disguised his opinion that
Mrs. Widdowson was sinking. She became unconscious soon after, and in
the early morning breathed her last.
Widdowson was in the room, and at the end sat by the bedside for an
hour. But he did not look upon his wife’s face. When it was told him
that she had ceased to breathe, he rose and went into his own chamber,
death-pale, but tearless.
* * *
On the day after the funeral—Monica was buried in the cemetery, which
is hard by the old church—Widdowson and the elder sister had a long
conversation in private. It related first of all to the motherless
baby. Widdowson’s desire was that Miss Madden should undertake the care
of the child. She and Virginia might live wherever they preferred;
their needs would be provided for. Alice had hardly dared to hope for
such a proposal—as it concerned the child, that is to say. Gladly she
accepted it.
“But there’s something I must tell you,” she said, with embarrassed
appeal in her wet eyes. “Poor Virginia wishes to go into an
institution.”
Widdowson looked at her, not understanding; whereupon she broke into
tears, and made known that her sister was such a slave to strong drink
that they both despaired of reformation unless by help of the measure
she had indicated. There were people, she had heard, who undertook the
care of inebriates.
“You know that we are by no means penniless,” sobbed Alice. “We can
very well bear the expense. But will you assist us to find a suitable
place?”
He promised to proceed at once in the matter.
“And when she is cured,” said Miss Madden, “she shall come and live
with me. And when baby is about two years old we will do what we have
been purposing for a long time. We will open a school for young
children, either here or at Weston. That will afford my poor sister
occupation. Indeed, we shall both be better for the exertion of such an
undertaking—don’t you think so?”
“It would be a wise thing, I have no doubt whatever.”
The large house was to be abandoned, and as much of the furniture as
seemed needful transported to a smaller dwelling in another part of
Clevedon. For Alice resolved to stay here in spite of painful
associations. She loved the place, and looked forward with quiet joy to
the life that was prepared for her. Widdowson’s books would go back to
London; not to the Hampstead lodgings, however. Fearful of solitude, he
proposed to his friend Newdick that they should live together, he, as a
man of substance, bearing the larger share of the expense. And this
plan also came into execution.
* * *
Three months went by, and on a day of summer, when the wooded hills and
green lanes and rich meadows of Clevedon looked their best, when the
Channel was still and blue, and the Welsh mountains loomed through a
sunny haze, Rhoda Nunn came over from the Mendips to see Miss Madden.
It could not be a gladsome meeting, but Rhoda was bright and natural,
and her talk as inspiriting as ever. She took the baby in her arms, and
walked about with it for a long time in the garden, often murmuring,
“Poor little child! Dear little child!” There had been doubt whether it
would live, but the summer seemed to be fortifying its health. Alice,
it was plain, had found her vocation; she looked better than at any
time since Rhoda had known her. Her complexion was losing its muddiness
and spottiness; her step had become light and brisk.
“And where is your sister?” inquired Miss Nunn.
“Staying with friends at present. She will be back before long, I hope.
And as soon as baby can walk we are going to think very seriously about
the school. You remember?”
“The school? You will really make the attempt?”
“It will be so good for us both. Why, look,” she added laughingly,
“here is one pupil growing for us!”
“Make a brave woman of her,” said Rhoda kindly.
“We will try—ah, we will try! And is your work as successful as ever?”
“More!” replied Rhoda. “We flourish like the green bay-tree. We shall
have to take larger premises. By-the-bye, you must read the paper we
are going to publish; the first number will be out in a month, though
the name isn’t quite decided upon yet. Miss Barfoot was never in such
health and spirit—nor I myself. The world is moving!”
Whilst Miss Madden went into the house to prepare hospitalities, Rhoda,
still nursing, sat down on a garden bench. She gazed intently at those
diminutive features, which were quite placid and relaxing in soft
drowsiness. The dark, bright eye was Monica’s. And as the baby sank
into sleep, Rhoda’s vision grew dim; a sigh made her lips quiver, and
once more she murmured, “Poor little child!”