THE EXACT STORY OF CHALLIS'S FIRST WIFE'S FIRST MARRIAGE. HOW HE AND
MARIANNE MISSED THEIR EXPLANATION. CHARLOTTE THE DETECTIVE. CHALLIS'S
SECOND COURTSHIP, IN A NUTSHELL
If there had been no cause of irritation between Alfred Challis and his
wife about his relations with Grosvenor Square, it would have mattered
much less what he kept back from her of his previous history. And if he
had taken her fully into his confidence about the story of his early
marriage with her sister, his relations with Grosvenor Square would
have been much less capable of embitterment and misinterpretation. But
his palpable concealment of Heaven-knew-what from one who conceived she
had of all others the fullest right to know it, played the part, in
this domestic misunderstanding, of poor Desdemona's bad faith towards
her father. "She has deceived her father, and may thee," said Brabantio.
Could Marianne have known _what_ Heaven knew, she would probably have
held her husband blameless, if ill-judging; though she might have felt
very little leniency towards her sister for contracting a marriage
unknown to her family. But the ground was not in order for the sowing
of a crop of explanation, to be reaped as a harvest of reconciliation.
It was cumbered with the clover her husband was supposed to be enjoying
at the Acropolis Club and elsewhere, and choked with a creeping weed of
Jealousy unacknowledged. And as the trivial things of life are always
the ones that play the biggest parts, so that unfortunate resolution
not to disturb his wife, when Alfred Challis came home from the Club
dinner, had to answer for quite ten times its fair share of the events
that followed. No doubt her silence was a little vindictive--it would
have been so easy to give a hint that she was awake--but the truth
is it had very little to do with the matter. What had a great deal
to do with it was the fact that Mr. Challis had _not_ been enjoying
himself. Had it been otherwise, he would have felt apologetic; the
monitor he would not admit was his conscience would have prescribed
amends to Marianne for contriving to be so jolly without her. But
she had no guess that her Grosvenor Square enemy was laid up with a
sprained ankle, any more than he had that the new cook had been the
means of bringing to light a great deal--the worst half in disjointed
fragments--of a story his good if mistaken intentions had concealed.
For, needless to say, the actual story was still very obscure to her;
and Mrs. Eldridge, though clever enough, was a biassed assistant in its
elucidation.
Lest it should still be equally obscure to the reader, let him note its
broad facts as follows: Edward Keith Horne married, or went through
a marriage ceremony, with Kate Verrall, a governess at the house of
a coal-merchant named Hallock. Six weeks later he went away to New
York, promising an early return; there was some pretence of winding
up a relative's affairs. He repudiated his wife shortly after; as
she became convinced, and as Challis, his friend, also believed, on
legally good grounds. As we have already said, Challis may have met
conviction half-way, being in love with the girl himself. Of course,
it was he whose name Mrs. Steptoe had remembered wrongly as Harris.
And, equally of course, the miserable reprobate of Athelstan Taylor's
painful experience at St. Brides was Horne, who succeeded with what
was left of his mouth in nearly articulating his true name rightly.
"Kay Thorne" was close to the truth, considering the circumstances.
This story is fortunate in having very little to do with this man; as
his young wife, or victim, may also have been in having for her only
adviser a youth with a strong interest in urging her passive acceptance
of her position. If only half the betrayed girls in the world could
have such an adviser ready to hand! Alas!--how seldom is one found with
the courage to say, "Think yourself at least in luck, silly girl, that
you are not fettered for life to this lout or devil! Hug to your heart
this one consolation, that though you have bought your experience of
him, and what he calls love, dear, you have escaped scot-free of the
blessed sacrament of marriage!" Too often the poor thing finds herself
alone in the desert--the desert where correct expressions grow--sin,
and shame, and penitence, and so on--and where marriage-lines and
marriage-settlements make oases, from which she is excluded, for the
Grundy family to breed in.
Perhaps Challis had a concealed motive for his decision when, at the
time he married Kate's sister, he made up his mind to treat the whole
story as a sealed book. But, even with none, was he wrong, knowing
that his wife elect was quite convinced that no belonging of hers had
ever set foot outside her particular Grundy oasis? Remember, too,
that he was only pursuing the course he would have held it a point of
honour to pursue if he had never married Marianne at all. Why should
his marriage with her make it incumbent on him to dig up a story that
his wife had already passed years in ignorance of, without any living
creature being perceptibly the worse? No doubt Mrs. Eldridge would have
said, with a portentous gush of deep conviction, "She ought to have
been told." But why?
At least, the story shows that Challis himself had nothing disgraceful
to conceal, and that all his actions were dictated by consideration for
others. It is more than likely that an explanation, had the position
favoured it, would have ended--if not by placing him in the position
of a hero--at least by a discharge with a first-class certificate from
the high court of Morality. But the atmosphere teemed with suggestions
of malpractice undefined, and the master-hand of Mrs. Eldridge made the
most of them.
No explanation took place between Challis and Marianne at the only
time when it was easily possible--on the morning after we saw them
last. Explanations are like strawberries--bottled up, they spoil.
Now, whatever chance there would have been of Challis hearing of the
photograph mystery and Mrs. Steptoe's memories was cancelled by the
malign arrival on the scene of Mrs. Eldridge and her John, bound for
his daily toil at St. Martin's-le-Grand. So, you see, it was early in
the morning.
Charlotte had been so uneasy about dear Marianne that she felt she must
come over to find out. It was so entirely unexpected. She had been
laughing and joking the minute before. So Charlotte thought fit to say,
and Challis, to whom it was said privately, detected a flavour of an
unasked-for assurance that Marianne was cheerful in his absence. "It"
had come quite suddenly, when Marianne went away to speak to Martha.
Challis had no means of guessing what "it" had been, except Mrs.
Eldridge's note, and a certain demeanour of his wife's, which no doubt
had to answer for an expression of Master Bob's, in secret conclave
with his sister Cat. According to him, his mater was savage, if you
liked, this morning. Challis had gone to his wife's room to ask about
"it" as soon as he heard that the servant had abated; and had been
told, coldly, that nothing had been the matter that Marianne knew of.
His production of Mrs. Eldridge's note was met by, "That's just like
Charlotte!" He waited a few moments for counter-inquiry about himself,
rather anxious to tell what a failure the Acropolis had turned out;
but no curiosity was shown, and he went back to his own room to dress,
saying nothing further. Had he been wise, he would have sat on the bed
in his pyjamas, and said he meant to stop there until the mystery was
accounted for.
Matters got definitely worse when Mrs. Eldridge, whose invasion
occurred just at the end of breakfast, took advantage of a chance exit
of Marianne's, in connection with housekeeping matters, to follow
her and contrive a sympathetic interview within hearing of the two
gentlemen. Not that a word was audible, but anyone with the slightest
knowledge of human nature would have discerned that one of the
speakers, the tone of whose voice was mellow with the opposite sexes
of the persons she was speaking of, was recognizing the patience and
forbearance of the other under trials, and exhorting her to renewed
efforts in the same direction.
"What do you suppose was the matter?" Challis was filling his pipe, as
he asked this question of Mr. Eldridge.
"Mean to say you don't know?"
"I certainly don't. Nobody has told me."
"I ain't any help. Don't ask me--that's all! Don't put it on me to
say!" Mr. Eldridge, however, implies that his attitude is one of
Discretion, not Ignorance. For he closes one eye, an action that can
bear no other interpretation. He also shakes his head continuously and
gently, as one who would convey to an interviewer the hopelessness of
cross-examination.
"I suppose it was nothing but an upset. The weather's trying." It had
really been unusually normal. But Mr. Challis was talking as gentlemen
do when they are lighting a pipe, and thinking more about whether
that's enough than about the topic in hand.
"Stomach!" said Mr. Eldridge, as nearly in a monosyllable as spelling
permits. He repeated the word just half-a-dozen times in a run; then
added this rider: "Say nervous system, when a lady. Puts it better."
"Something of that sort!" The pipe draws, and the smoker ought to
look happy. He doesn't. But, then, the sympathetic murmur, with its
unguessed import, of Mrs. Eldridge afar, is reaching his ears. Sudden
appreciative gushes, and the firm tone of sound advice, are very
unsettling when inarticulate. Cannot that fool John be made to throw
a light on the mystery? Try again! "Charlotte told you all about it,
John; you know she did!" The Christian names give cordiality. But John
is not to be cajoled.
"Tellin's is tellin's," says he; and goes so far as to place a finger
against one side of his nose, in token of perspicuity. "Put it at
stomach!... Got the right time?"
"That clock's right."
"Then Greenwich is fast. Must see about gettin' off! Gettin'
off--gettin' off--gettin' off!" Mr. Eldridge's repetitions no doubt
have some bearing on his relations with his fellow-man, but it is not
easy to say what. They seem to sanction concurrent event; that is the
most one can say. He continued his last repetition even after he had
taken his leave, saying he wouldn't wait for Lotty, _because_ she was
going the other way, and seeming quite content with his speech-work.
Hence, when Lotty reappeared hurriedly, and was surprised at his
departure, having something she _must_ say to him before he went,
Challis got very little speech of the lady. All her limited time
allowed her to say was that she had had a long talk with dear Marianne,
and she was quite sure "it" would be all right now. Only she was
convinced it would be so much better to say nothing to her--just to
take no notice of "it" and let "it" drop. However, rush she must, or
she would never catch John! And rush she did. And Challis grunted, but
retired to his own room, and was soon absorbed in the Ostrogoths.
A stand-up fight between Titus and his wife at this period might have
saved the situation. It would not have mattered one straw whether
it had turned on Grosvenor Square or on the unsolved mystery of the
photograph. Anything that led to fiery out-speech would have been a
precursor of reconciliation.
* * * * *
It is difficult to tell anything with certainty about any love-affairs.
Nobody ever knows anything at all about them; even the two
constituents, if called on to explain and analyze themselves, make but
a poor show. We know pretty well what the Poet is good for at a pinch.
And as for the Man of the World and the Man in the Street--well!--all
we can say is, give us the Woman of the World or the Woman in the
Street; preferably the latter. But the duty of the story, in reference
to the psychology of Challis's two marriages, is to tell what has come
to light, or seems most probable--what it thinks or believes, not
knows, about the depths of an unfathomable ocean.
Challis, then, being a young man irreligiously brought up--that is to
say, made to understand that he was responsible for his behaviour,
and that no attempt to shift his sins off on other shoulders would be
held fair play--found himself at five-and-twenty in a position that
would have been a sore trial to the strongest fortitude. He was, if
not actually left in charge of a friend's recently married wife, at
any rate in her close confidence; and, after her return to a home and
friends from whom her marriage was a secret, the sole depository of
that secret. He might never have fallen in love with Kate had they
met on fair ground. But a youth unfamiliar with girl-kind that is not
of his own belongings--sisters, to wit, and cousins earmarked as
sisters--is always in danger if even a moderately pretty or attractive
outsider takes him into her confidence. Challis's danger was all
the greater owing to his terror of being treacherous to his friend.
Perhaps, if the avowal of his passion had been legitimately possible,
he might never have suspected himself of any passion to avow. But when
you believe your conscience will brand you as a traitor to all eternity
if you pursue a particular course, you naturally want to pursue it.
So it was a great relief to him when a letter, shown to him alone by
the terrified girl, disclosed the atrocious deception that had been
practised on her, and the miserable position in which she was placed.
No wonder the avowal came. Our own belief is that it would have come,
exactly the same, to a girl of almost any personality. Nothing could
have averted it, short of a hare-lip, an isolated projecting tusk,
or--suppose we say--onions. And this girl had pretty lips, and the
interview occurred after tea.
Information is scanty about what followed. But no serious inquiry can
have been made into the truth of Mr. Home's accusation against himself.
The exact nature of it--the particular illegality he appealed to in
support of his case--does not come to light. There really was no one to
inquire, except Challis, unless the whole story had come out. It did
not. A twelvemonth later Kate exchanged the name of Verrall--whether
rightly or wrongly borne--for that of Challis, and two years later
Master Bob was born, and his poor little mother had died of him. He
showed no compunction, but kicked and made a horrible noise.
His father was only reasonably overwhelmed by his loss. It may be that,
like many another inexperienced youth, he had not reckoned with the
difficulties this world's Bobs and their like are apt to inflict on
their family before they are formally enrolled in it, especially when
the mothers they select have nervous temperaments. Challis felt, when
he was left alone with the baby, that he had had a fierce tussle with
Fate, and had come out of it severely punished. Probably, if his wife
had survived, and Bob had lived to be a year old, without alarms about
another brother or sister, his father would have been much less easily
reconciled to his widowerhood. He would then have had a short draught
of the nectar of life at its best; that is, if--as we suppose--a
tempestuous excitability, which appeared two or three months after
marriage, was entirely due to Master Bob. Mental unsoundness seems to
have been denied; but, then, surely someone must have affirmed it?
As it was, Bob did a good deal--the best he could--to make up for the
mischief he had done. He was a satisfaction to his father; and, being
taken in hand by his Aunt Marianne, then a girl of eighteen, and in a
sense adopted by her, became a strong connecting link between the two,
and was really the agency that brought about Challis's second marriage
four or five years later. It would have happened sooner, no doubt, but
for the anomalous and grotesque condition of English Law, which, till a
year or so since, made certain marriages diversely legal in different
portions of the British Empire. The Angels might weep, but if they
cried their eyes out it would still remain impossible for a man to wed
with his deceased wife's sister on certain square yards of it. He had
to be domiciled in a special portion of the Empire on which the sun
never sets to do that, and yet live ungrundied. Marianne was slow to
give in on the point. She had, in common with many of her countrywomen,
a religious conviction--a belief in the plenary inspiration of any book
in a religious binding--you know the sort. She may have had others,
but the qualifications of her intelligence were not such as to enable
bystanders to discover their exact nature. Alfred Challis certainly
never did so. And this religious conviction did not give way until
her brother-in-law deliberately wrote formal proposals to a Miss Bax,
with elbows, whom she hated; to a fascinating young Jewish widow, who
had lawlessly said she would just as soon marry a Gentile as a Jew;
and to the daughter of a Unitarian minister. He took the three letters
to her, and said, "Now, Polly Anne, which is it to be? You may burn
two of these; the other one I post." Polly Anne promptly destroyed
the two last; her brother-in-law was blasphemous and impious enough
already without that, she said. But Emma Bax!--no, when she came to
think of it, it was impossible! However, Challis directed the letter
and, as it were, invested a postage-stamp in intimidation; so there
was nothing for it but to throw her arms around his neck and surrender
at discretion. Anything rather than Emma Bax! He kissed her tears away
and said: "You know, Polly Anne, after all, you're only poor Kate's
half-sister, when all's said and done!" This she found very consolatory.
It was a pity, at this juncture, that the girl's mother was a fool.
Had she been a reasonably good guardian for her daughter, she would at
least have insisted on the nuptials being celebrated in a land where
the marriage would have been held lawful. But she contented herself
with condemning the union in the abstract, and flinging Holy Writ--also
in the abstract--at its perpetrators. The Bench of Bishops would have
done the same, no doubt; but that Bench would have forbidden the
banns, to a certainty. As she remained silent, and no outsider could
be expected to screw himself up to prohibition-point in the case of
a half-sister, the pair were wedded by a priest who knew nothing of
them beyond their bare names, and never really became man and wife, as
they would have done if they had been married sixty-odd years before;
unless, indeed, some busybody had obtained a decree annulling the
marriage--as the Law, with a keen sense of fun, directed in the days of
our great-grandfathers.
The notable point in the psychology of these two marriages surely
is that in neither case was the bride the free selection of the
bridegroom, except in the sense that he was absolutely free to take
or leave either. He never, strictly speaking, fell in love at all.
He found himself in a well, and love trickled in. But even in this
metaphor he never was over head and ears. He never wished to be a glove
on any hand, to press any cheek. To call him passionately in love with
either of the two sisters would have been just as absurd as to say that
Romeo "got very fond" of Rosaline and Juliet. Exchange the phrases, and
each fits its place. Challis got very fond of both his wives, being an
affectionate sort of chap. But he remained a stranger to the divine
intoxication which is known in its fulness only to Romeo and his like,
and which some men never know at all.
Short of this last sort may often be found men who have escaped Romeo's
experience early in life, yet whom some cunning context of circumstance
may just upset, and convert for the moment into idiots as infatuated
as the young Montague and Capulet we have cried over so many a time.
For our own part, we count none quite safe from what is really an
ennobling phase of sheer madness; except it be, for instance, a Charles
the Second, a Rochester, a Tiberius, or a Joe Smith. _Id genus omne_ is
safe enough.