"Mr Crimble," I whispered, "I have a message."
A tense excitement seized him. His face turned a dusky yellow. How
curious it is to see others as they must sometimes see ourselves. Should
_I_ have gasped like that, if Mr Crimble had been Fanny's Mercury?
"A letter from Miss Bowater," I whispered, "and I am to say," the
cadaverous face was close above me, its sombre melting eyes almost
bulging behind their glasses, "I am to say that she is giving yours
'_her earnest attention, let alone her prayers_.'"
I remember once, when Adam Waggett as a noisy little boy was playing in
the garden at home, the string of his toy bow suddenly snapped: Mr
Crimble drew back as straight and as swiftly as that. His eyes rained
unanswerable questions. But the parlourmaid had turned to meet me, and
the next moment she and I were side by side in Lady Pollacke's springy
carriage _en route_ for my lodgings. I had given my message, but never
for an instant had I anticipated it would have so overwhelming an
effect.
There must have been something inebriating in Lady Pollacke's tea. My
mind was still simmering with excitement. And yet, during the whole of
that journey, I spent not a moment on Mr Crimble's or Fanny's affairs,
or even on Brunswick House, but on the dreadful problem whether or not I
ought to "tip" the parlourmaid, and if so, with how much. Where had I
picked this enigma up? Possibly from some chance reference of my
father's. It made me absent and harassed. I saw not a face or a flower;
and even when the parlourmaid was actually waiting at my request in Mrs
Bowater's passage, I stood over my money-chest, still incapable of
coming to a decision.
Instinct prevailed. Just as I could not bring myself to complete _Tom o'
Bedlam_ with Miss Bullace looking out of her eyes at me, so I could not
bring myself to offer money to Lady Pollacke's nice prim parlourmaid.
Instead I hastily scrabbled up in tissue paper a large flat brooch--a
bloodstone set in pinchbeck--a thing of no intrinsic value, alas, but
precious to me because it had been the gift of an old servant of my
mother's. I hastened out and lifting it over my head, pushed it into her
hand.
Dear me, how ashamed of this impulsive action I felt when I had regained
my solitude. Should I not now be the jest of the Pollacke kitchen and
drawing-room alike?--for even in my anxiety to attain Mr Crimble's
private ear, I had half-consciously noticed what a cascade of talk had
gushed forth when Mr Crimble had closed the door of the latter behind
him.
That evening I shared with Mrs Bowater my experiences at Brunswick
House. So absorbed was I in my own affairs that I deliberately evaded
any reference to hers. Yet her pallid face, seemingly an inch longer and
many shades more austere these last two days, touched my heart.
"You won't think," I pleaded at last, "that I don't infinitely prefer
being here, with you? Isn't it, Mrs Bowater, that you and I haven't
quite so many things to _pretend_ about? It is easy thinking of others
when there are only one or two of them. But whole drawing-roomsful!
While here; well, there is only just you and me."
"Why, miss," she replied, "as for pretending, the world's full of
shadows, though substantial enough when it comes to close quarters. If
we were all to look at things just bare in a manner of speaking, it
would have to be the Garden of Eden over again. It can't be done. And
it's just that that what's called the gentry know so well. We must make
the best use of the mess we can."
I was tired. The thin, sweet air of spring, wafted in at my window after
the precocious heat of the day, breathed a faint, reviving fragrance. A
curious excitement was in me. Yet her words, or perhaps the tone of her
voice, coloured my fancy with vague forebodings. I pushed aside my
supper, slipped off my fine visiting clothes, and put on my
dressing-gown. With lights extinguished, I drew the blind, and strove
for a while to puzzle out life's riddle for myself. Not for the first or
the last time did wandering wits cheat me of the goal, for presently in
the quiet out of my thoughts, stole into my imagination the vision of
that dreaming head my eyes had sheltered on.
"Hypnos," I sighed the word; and--another face, Fanny's, seemed to melt
into and mingle with the visionary features. Why, why, was my desperate
thought, why needed _she_ allow the world to come to such close
quarters? Why, with so many plausible reasons given in her letter for
keeping poor Mr Crimble waiting, had she withheld the one that counted
for most? And what was it? I knew in my heart that _that_ could not be
"making the best use of the mess." Surely, if one just told only the
truth, there wasn't anything else to tell. It had taken me some time to
learn this lesson.
A low, rumbling voice shook up from the kitchen. Mrs Bowater was talking
to herself. Dejection drew over me again at the thought of the deceit I
was in, and I looked at my love for Fanny as I suppose Abraham at the
altar of stones looked at his son Isaac. Then suddenly a thought far
more matter-of-fact chilled through my mind. I saw again Mr Crimble
huddling down towards me in that echoing hall, heard my voice delivering
Fanny's message, and realized that half of what I had said had been
written in mockery. It had been intended for my eye only--"_Let alone my
prayers_." In the solitude of the darkness the words had a sound far
more sinister than even Fanny can have intended.
Mr Crimble, however, had accepted them apparently in good faith--to
judge at least from the letter which reached me the following morning:--
"DEAR MISS M.,--Thank you. I write with a mind so overburdened that
words fail me. But I realize that Miss Bowater has no truer friend
than yourself, and shall be frank. After that _terrible_ morning
you might well have refused to help me. I cannot believe that you
will--for her sake. This long concealment, believe me, is not of my
own seeking. It cannot, it must not, continue, a moment beyond the
necessity. For weeks, nay, months, I have been tortured with doubts
and misgivings. Her pride, her impenetrable heedlessness; oh,
indeed, I realize the difficulties of her situation. I dare not
speak till she gives consent. Yet silence puts me in a false
position, and tongues, as perhaps even you may be aware, begin to
wag. Nor is this my first attempt, and--to be more frank than I
feel is discreet--there is my mother (quite apart from _hers_) now,
alas, aged and more dependent on my affection and care than ever.
To make a change now--the talk, the absence of Christian _charity_,
my own temperament and calling! I pray for counsel to guide my
stumbling bark on this sea of _darkest_ tempest.
"Can F. decide that her affections are such as could justify her
in committing her future to me? Am I justified in asking her? You,
too, must have many anxieties--anxieties perhaps unguessed at by
those of coarser fibre. And though I cannot venture to ask your
confidences, I do ask for your feminine intuition--even though this
may seem an _intrusion_ after my sad discomfiture the other day.
And yet, I assure you, it was not corporeal fear--are not we
priests the police of the City Beautiful? Might I not have
succeeded merely in making us _both_ ridiculous? But that is past,
and the dead past must bury its dead: there is no gentler sexton.
"Need I say that this letter is not the fruit of any mere
_impulse_. The thought, the very image of her never leaves my
consciousness night or day; and I get no rest. I am almost afraid
at the power she has of imprinting herself on the mind. I implore
you to be discreet, without needless deception. I will wait
patiently. My last desire is to _hasten_ an answer--unless, dear
Miss M., one in the affirmative. And would it be possible--indeed
the chief purpose of this letter was to make this small
request--would it be possible to give me one hour--no tea--this
afternoon? There was a phrase in your whispered message--probably
because of the peculiar acoustic properties of Brunswick
House--that was but half-caught. We must not risk the faintest
shadow of misunderstanding.
"Believe me, yours most gratefully, though 'perplexed in the
extreme,'
"HAROLD CRIMBLE.
"PS.--I feel at times that it is incumbent on one to burn one's
boats; even though out of sight the further shore.
"And the letter: would it be even possible to share a glance at
_that_?"
My old habit of hunting in the crannies of what I read had ample
opportunity here. Two things stood out in my mind: a kind of
astonishment at Mr Crimble's "stumbling bark" which he was asking _me_
to help to steer, and inexpressible relief that Fanny's letter was
buried beyond hope of recovery before he could call that afternoon. The
more I pitied and understood his state of mind, the more helpless and
anxious I felt. Then, in my foolish fashion, I began again picturing in
fancy the ceremony that would bring Mr Crimble and my landlady into so
close a relationship. Why did he fear the wagging of tongues so much? I
didn't. Would Miss Bullace be a bridesmaid? Would I? I searched in my
drawer and read over the "Form of Solemnization of Matrimony." I came to
"the dreadful day of judgment," and to "serve" and "obey," and
shivered. I was not sure that I cared for the way human beings had
managed these things. But at least, bridesmaids _said_ nothing, and if
I----
While I was thus engaged Mrs Bowater entered the room. I smuggled my
prayer-book aside and gave her Fanny's letter. She was always a woman of
few words. She folded it reflectively; took off her spectacles, replaced
them in their leather case, and that in her pocket.
"'Soap, handkerchiefs, stockings,'" she mused, "though why in the world
she didn't _say_ 'silk' is merely Fanny's way. And I am sure, miss," she
added, "she must have had one peculiar moment when the thought occurred
to her of the bolt."
"But, Mrs Bowater," I cried in snake-like accents, "you _said_ you were
'soliciting no divulgements.'"
Mrs Bowater's mouth opened in silent laughter. "Between you----" she
began, and broke off. "Gracious goodness, but here's that young man, Mr
Crimble, calling again."
Mr Crimble drank tea with me, though he ate nothing. And now, his
darkest tempest being long since stilled, I completely absolve myself
for amending the message which Lady Pollacke's tesselated hall had
mercifully left obscure. He sat there, almost like a goldfish--though
black in effect beyond description--gaping for the crumb that never
comes. "She bade me," I muttered my falsehood, "she bade me say secretly
that she has had your letter, that she is giving it her earnest
attention, her earnest attention, _alone, and in her prayers_."
The dark liquid pupils appeared for one sheer instant to rotate, then he
turned away, and, as if quite helplessly, stifled an unsheltered yawn.
"'Alone,'" he cried desperately. "I see myself, I see myself in her
young imagination!"
I think he guessed that my words were false, that his ear had not been
as treacherous as all that. Whether or not, no human utterance have I
ever heard so humble, tragic, final. It knelled in my ear like the
surrender of all hope. And yet it brought me, personally, some
enlightenment. It was with Mr Crimble's eyes that I now scanned not only
his phantom presence in Fanny's imagination, but my own, standing beside
him--a "knick-knack" figure of fun, pygmied beneath the flappets of his
clerical coat, like a sun-beetle by a rook. The spectacle strengthened
me without much affecting Fanny. She was no longer the absolute sultana
of my being. I could _think_ now, as well as adore.
How strange it is that when our minds are needled to a sharp focus mere
"things" swarm so close. There was not a single ornament or book or
fading photograph in Mrs Bowater's parlour that in this queer privacy
did not mutely seem to cry, "Yes, here am I. This is how things go."
I leant forward and looked at him. "We mustn't care what she sees, what
she thinks, if only we can go on loving her."
"'Can, can'?" echoed Mr Crimble, "I have prayed on my knees _not_ to."
This was a sharp ray on my thoughts of love. "But why?" I said. "Even
when I was a child, I knew by my mother's face that I must go on, and
should go on, loving her, Mr Crimble, whether she loved me or not. One
can't make a bad mistake in giving, can one? And yet--well, you must
remember that I cannot but have been a--a disappointment; that as long
as I live I can't expect any great affection, any disproportionate one,
I mean."
"But, but," he stumbled on, "a daughter's affection--it's different. I
mustn't brood on my trouble. It unhinges me. Why, the clock stops. But
nevertheless may God bless you for that."
"But surely," I persisted, smiling as cheerfully as I could, "_Nil
desperandum_, Mr Crimble. And you know what they say about fish in the
sea."
His eye rolled round on me as if a serpent had spoken. "I am sorry, I am
sorry," he repeated rapidly, in the same low, unemphatic undertone as if
to himself. "I must just wait. You have never seen a sheep--a bullock,
shall we call him?--being driven to the slaughter-house. On, on--from
despair to despair. That's my position." His face was emptied of
expression, his eyes fixed.
These words, his air, his look, this awful private thing--I can't
say--it shocked and frightened me beyond words. But I answered him
steadily none the less. "Listen, Mr Crimble," I said, "look at _me_,
here, what I am. I have had my desperate moments too--more alone in the
world than you can ever be! And I swear before God that I will never,
never be _not_ myself." I wonder what the listener thought of this
little challenge, not perhaps what Mr Crimble did.
"Well," he replied, with sudden calm, "that's the courage of the
martyrs, and not all of them perhaps have been Christians, if history is
to be credited. Yes, and in sober truth, I assure you, _you_, that I
would go to the stake for--for Miss Bowater."
He rose, and in that instant of dignity I foresaw what was never to
be--lawn sleeves encasing those loose, black arms. He had somehow wafted
me back to my Confirmation.
"And the letter? I have no wish to intrude. But her actual words. I
mayn't see _that_?"
"You will please forgive me," I entreated helplessly, "it is buried;
because, you see, Fanny--you see, Mrs Bowater----"
"Ah," he said. "It is this deception which dismays, scandalizes me most.
But you will keep me informed?"
He seized his soft round hat, and it was on this cold word we parted. I
stood by the window, with hand stretched out to summon him back. But no
word of comfort or hope came to my aid, and I watched him out of sight.