HOW CHALLIS AND HIS WIFE PARTED. A DINNER AT THE CLUB, AND HIS RETURN
FROM IT. WHAT HAS BECOME OF YOUR MISTRESS? A LETTER FROM MARIANNE
CRAIK. DAMN CHARLOTTE ELDRIDGE!
There are no hours more miserable than the first ones of a day after
a quarrel, or high tension akin to a quarrel. Next morning at the
Hermitage found it full of silences and reserves. Mr. and Mrs. Challis
were speaking with studied forbearance--even civility--towards one
another. The children had been told to make less noise, and had made
it, but had then been told to make still less, and so on, to the point
of virtual extinction. Their mother had risen at her usual time, but
looking ill, and had scarcely found fault with her usual spirit. And
yet Harmood, whose intuitions the story is now following, observed that
the butter had a flavour--namely, the one it so often has; and the
eggs were the sort that won't boil. There is another sort, which has
a passion for disintegration; but this time it was the former, which
is worse; and yet they were accepted in silence. Harmood saw clearly
that there had been words, and forthwith resolved to select this moment
to give warning suddenly--a step she had been contemplating for some
weeks. An up-to-date English servant respects herself more, or less,
in proportion to the degree of confusion into which she can plunge her
employers when she throws up her situation.
Mr. Challis had only waited--Harmood noticed--to see the children as
they went out for an early walk, not to be in the hot sun too much.
He kissed both affectionately, but his customary jokes with them were
rather under his breath. He then went to his room, and presumably wrote
something Harmood's inner consciousness was able to form a low opinion
of, without perusal; for whenever she did out the study she mentally
classed MS. literature as a lot of stuff.
Mrs. Challis transacted necessary household business, and went straight
to her room, saying she was going out, and was not sure when she should
be back. At the street-door she was stopped by Harmood, respectfully
but firmly. Was she likely to be back before twelve? She couldn't say;
why? Of course, because Miss Harmood wished to give warning, and if
she did not do so before midday, she would have to pass twenty-four
hours more under the roof that had sheltered her for three years at
least. As Mrs. Challis might be out, she would prefer to give a month's
warning forthwith.
Mrs. Challis did not show the panic Harmood had promised herself the
sight of. On the contrary, she barely raised her eyebrows as she
answered: "Certainly, Harmood! To-day is the twentieth," and was
actually going out. But she paused an instant at a prefatory cough
from the handmaiden. Had the latter any complaint to make? The answer
renounced complaint, but with implication of generosity. "Very well!"
said Mrs. Challis thereon. "I can't wait. The twentieth." And went
away, leaving Harmood mortified.
She came back between twelve and one. She was heated with walking, but
might have been crying, too. So Harmood thought when she let her in.
She went upstairs, speaking to her husband outside his door. She had
just come back from Charlotte's, she said. Was he there? Yes--he was,
and came out at once to speak with her. He was amiable, but subdued.
Had waited for her, in case there was anything--a vague expression, but
conciliatory under the circumstances. There was certainly nothing--no
doubt about it. Was he going out?--his coat suggested it. Yes; he
would not be in to lunch. A letter had come by the second post, asking
him to meet a man on business in the City at two. He would lunch at
Scallopini's, and stay at his club, where he had promised to dine with
his publisher and some authors at 7.30. But he would not come in late.
Then Marianne said coldly: "Don't hurry on my account."
He answered, as cheerfully as he dared--that is, not to seem to ignore
the conditions: "You'll go to bed just the same, of course?"
Her reply was: "I shall go to bed." Nothing more. She went on to her
own bedroom.
Challis could almost have sworn he heard a sob as the door closed. Was
it so or not? He could not bear the doubt. He would risk it--go to
her, throw himself at her feet, cry out in his misery for pardon for
the past, and oblivion; for a pact of hope for the days and hours to
come. If he could only have made his decision a few seconds sooner! But
he just missed the chance, as Marianne opened her door and came back,
stony.
"I forgot to tell you. Harmood has given warning."
"Harmood! Why--what on earth has the woman to complain of?"
"I can't say. _I_ have given her no cause of complaint. She makes no
complaint, as I understand."
"Well!--that _is_ extraordinary! However, she's not indispensable. We
can do without her. Only you'll have such a bother to find someone
else."
Marianne said: "I don't think I shall." And Challis imagined that she
referred to some possible servant or useful agency that she knew of.
But the thought in her mind was different, as we shall see. Challis
recalled her words afterwards. All that this talk of Harmood meant for
him then was that a good impulse had been spoiled by it.
He looked at his watch, and found he would only just have time to get
to town, get some lunch, and be ready for his appointment, which was
an imperative one. He changed slippers for boots, and was ready. With
his hand on the open street-door, he called out to his wife: "Good-bye,
then! I'm off." Contrary to his expectation, she came downstairs.
"You are off," she said, repeating his words. "Good-bye, then!" And
rather to his surprise she kissed him, saying: "Yes--then, good-bye!"
All the manner of it was a little odd. But his instincts--may be
mistaken ones--told him to let well alone. He replied with a warmer
kiss than hers had been, and a moment after was on his way to East
Putney Station. He was very uncomfortable about losing sight of her for
so long. But, after all, it might give their relations a better chance
of readjustment. Nothing like a pause!
A business colloquy of some warmth, with a reference to possible legal
proceedings, was followed first by a pleasant afternoon at the Club,
and next by a very informal dinner of six--of whom at least three were
amusing dogs--and lastly by a saunter homewards with one of the amusing
dogs, who wished him good-night at Gloucester Road Station. All these
experiences were of the sort that brushes cobwebs from the mind, and
Challis was feeling much freer at heart when, after midnight, his
latchkey clicked in the front-door at the Hermitage, and admitted him
to a silent house.
Well!--of course, a house is silent when everyone has gone to bed. What
would you have?
Challis lighted his candle and gathered up his letters to read in his
study. He went furtively up the two short stairflights, secretly hoping
that Marianne would speak from her room to him; for, however quiet he
was, she almost always heard him, the exceptions being when he was
unusually late, and she very sound asleep. He paused a moment to favour
the chance. Not a sound!
He glanced at her door with an uncomfortable feeling he could not at
first account for, a sense that it disclaimed an inmate. In a moment,
however, he mastered the reason of that. Nothing so very unusual! Only
that she had forgotten to put her boots out. Well!--this wasn't a
hotel. How absurdly nervous he was, and fanciful!
He turned into his study and lighted his reading-candle, with the
reflector. He would be there some time; there were so many letters.
First he would open the window, though, to let the sweet night-air in.
It was so overpoweringly hot.
Then he sat down to his desk and began upon his letters. One
advertisement of no value. Two advertisements of no value. A thick
letter from Nebraska to the author of his own first work, etc.,
etc., care of his publisher; that might be amusing. An enclosure of
slip-cuttings; so might that.... Hullo!--what was the meaning of this?
One to Mrs. Alfred Challis among his letters! Marianne had overlooked
it. Odd, that!
But--but--but, that was not all! Another, and another to Mrs. Alfred
Challis. Overlooked?--_impossible!_ Utterly impossible! She must be
still out. Where could she have gone? Did not she say she had been at
Charlotte's in the morning? Where else could she go? Where else was
there to go? Tulse Hill? Why--she was there yesterday!
He sat there a full two minutes, without dropping the letter he held
when the thing amiss first caught him, or changing his posture of face
or hand. He sat pursuing possibilities in thought, and overtaking
none. Then, with sudden resolution in a face white as the envelope he
dropped, he rose and went straight to his wife's room, lamp in hand. On
the way a thought came--it was just a bare chance!--had she gone to bed
early with a headache, saying she was not to be disturbed?--and had all
these letters come by the last post? Not probable, certainly, but not
impossible! At least, he would knock at her door before going in and
waking her suddenly. She would be less surprised.
He tapped and heard nothing. He listened longer than need was, clinging
artificially to hope. Then he opened the door and went in. There was no
one in the room.
Was there nothing that would give him a clue at once? He could not
think coolly yet; utterly useless with this nervous ague-fit on him! He
knew it would subside in time, and he would be able to think. But for
now, was there nothing?
For instance, in the appearance of the bed? Yes--something! Surely
his recollection did not deceive him. Should not the bed, by rights,
be "turned down," and be yawning, as it were, for its occupant? Would
there not be, normally, some appearance of night-clothes; if not laid
out on the coverlid as though courting their contents, at least beneath
the pillow? He threw it aside; there was nothing.
On the dressing-table, then? Yes!--the brushes and combs were not
there. They might be in the drawer, though. But how about those
stoppered bottles? One was clear in his memory--square, with horizontal
corrugations and a flat disc with a statement, hazarded by a writer
in gold, that it contained eau-de-Cologne. Where was it? Not on
that table, nor the chimney-piece. A great fear was on him that she
had _gone_! Then it flashed upon him that if she had, she would
have taken her jewels with her. Where did she keep them? In the top
wardrobe-drawer. It would be locked, but he and she had a secret
knowledge that one key opened all the drawers alike. He felt like
an over-sensitive detective; but he got the key and opened it. The
jewel-case was there, sure enough, but--not locked! He opened it, and
saw at a glance that none of her favourites were there. Oh yes--she had
gone! Marianne was gone--there was no doubt of it now!
He dropped back, feeling sick, on a chair, face to face with reality.
Event agrees ill with men of Challis's temperament, the sort that can
become unhealthily excited by the puppets of their own imagination.
That railway accident yesterday was bad enough! But this--think of
it!--at home, with the children to tell in the morning!
He tried to think--what next? Rouse the servants? Of course; but which
servant? Nurse by preference, certainly. _Procul absit_ Steptoe, and
even Miss Harmood! He rose, feeling weak; and without his lamp, for all
the house was navigable in the glorious moonlight, found his way to the
nursery. Nurse slept in the little room just off it on the landing. But
the rooms had a door between, in case of anything in the night. That is
nurse's phrase, not ours.
Just as Challis was framing in his mind the question he should
ask--and all forms that suggested themselves seemed to intensify the
position--the thought crossed his mind that it would be a relief to see
those youngsters asleep in the moonlight. Surely it would!--or, would
it? He would risk it. He opened the nursery-door furtively, and stole
in. But darkness reigned--curtain-darkness; shutter-darkness. Challis
knew that little girls that sleep exposed to moonbeams suffer in some
mysterious way--go blind, or go silly, or are witched away by bogles.
He wasn't sure which. He tiptoed to the window, and could let in the
light without noise, for, as it turned out, there was no shutter. What
of the bed? He knew how nice they were in bed. All children are.
But the bed was empty.
* * * * *
Mrs. Steptoe, roused from her first sleep, which was about two hours
old, and a promising sample, thought at first that she was back in
Tallack Street, and that the noise was her lamented husband, the worse
for liquor. Further revived, her decision that it might be thieves, and
that her choice of action would lie between affecting sleep and calling
"Police!" from the window, was short-lived; and she followed it up by
referring her master's cries to fire. Harmood's consciousness passed
through analogous phases, but with this difference: that the second one
did not suggest immediate action. A servant who had just given warning
might surely go on pretending to be asleep, unblamed. Was she there at
all, technically?
However, the thought of the great terror "Fire!" brings the laziest
from his bed. Neither waited to be sure that she was being called by
name, but ran out on the landing above, belonging to the attics, to be
encountered by Challis's voice from below, shouting madly, "What has
become of your mistress? Where are the children? Where on earth are you
all? Come down at once!" and so on.
Mrs. Steptoe's tremulous accents stopped him, but he could not catch
what she said. "Come down here at once," he cried again, "and speak up
plain. Where is your mistress, and the children?" He just got his voice
under control for the question.
Mrs. Steptoe came down half-way. Her costume forbade a complete
descent. "The mistress and the young ladies and nurse, sir?"
"Yes!--the mistress and the young ladies and nurse. Where are they?
Speak quick!"
Mrs. Steptoe found voice enough to say: "Ain't they at Tulse Hill, sir?"
"That's what I want to know. Do _you_ know?"
Mrs. Steptoe found some more voice. "Didn't the mistress say Tulse
Hill, Harmood?" She asked the question of the unseen, above, not
without recognition of her own necessity as a go-between. Direct
communications from a house-and-parlour-maid, single, in a nightgown,
could hardly be in order under the circumstances.
"Mrs. Challis said Tulse Hill, Mrs. Steptoe." The delicacy of the
position is recognized, and the intercessor and mediator installed. Who
repeats the words officially, and adds, as a mere human creature: "My
word a mercy, what a turn it giv'!"
"What did your mistress say? When did she go? Did she leave no message?"
"Not with me, sir!" Then officially: "Did Mrs. Challis leave no
message, Harmood?" Which, substituting as it does a name for an
offensive designation, confirms and ratifies the claim to mediumship
made by the speaker, who accordingly repeats the substance of Miss
Harmood's communication from above, replacing the offensive designation
in the text where it had been ignored in the original.
"The mistress didn't leave no message, sir, only a note. She was taking
the young ladies to their grandmamma's, and we was not to expect her
back."
"Where's the note?... Did she name any time?" To this Miss Harmood,
overstepping delicacy, and speaking, as it were, with the direct voice,
replies:
"Mrs. Challis said no time, sir, but you would know. She took her
things to stay, and the young ladies, and went about three."
"About three." Mrs. Steptoe confirms, adding: "The note is left on the
'all-table." This anticipates the question on Challis's lips, and also
reinstates delicacy, making further direct communication unnecessary.
Challis says abruptly, "You had better get back to bed, both of you!"
and goes to bring the lamp from the bedroom. He sees at once that he
had overlooked the letter, which must have been at the bottom of the
handful he brought up. Of course, it would be, if it was written before
three. All those later letters would have hidden it.
Yes--there it was, directed to "Mr. Challis" and nothing else. He
brought to the surface a memory of having noticed it at first, and
thought it a tradesman's account or a begging application. Now he could
see the handwriting. He could not have said whether he was more anxious
or afraid to open it. Perhaps the former, so great was his wish to know
how it would begin. But it had no definite beginning, such as letters
usually have.
"You do not really care for me, so I have made up my mind to leave
you--it is all at an end between us, for _you do not really care for
me_--now you can go away to Miss Arkroyd _if she will have you_--it
will not be bigamy, and _you know why_--I am Kate's sister, and we
cannot be legally Man and Wife--mamma has said so all along.
"Oh, Titus, how could you show that letter--could I have acted by you
like that?--to show it to that woman to read before you--think if it
had been me--my letter showed to _some gentleman_ you half knew, _and
me not seen it first_--oh, Titus--but it is good-bye.
"Besides, I know, because of the garden all by yourselves--Charlotte
says so."
Challis started to his feet as he read these words. "I knew it--I knew
it!" he cried to the empty air. "Oh, damn that woman!--with all my
heart and soul, damn that woman!" He added, without circumlocution,
words to the effect that if ever a woman of infamous character existed,
she was one. It seemed to soothe him; and after pacing the room once or
twice with the letter in his hand, he came back to the lamp, and went
on reading:
"Charlotte says so--only it is only the _sort of thing_ I mean--I
have _no accusation to make_--you must believe what I say--it is what
_I know you feel_ I go by--and I think _most women would, too_. If
you had cared for me you COULD not have done it, but though you have
behaved so to me I shall try to forgive you, though I have quite made
up my mind that we must part.
"Dear Titus, I know I have often been short-tempered, but that is
another thing--now good-bye.
"Affectly. yours,
"MARIANNE CRAIK."
The name was on the fourth line of the last page, though a postscript
followed. Challis broke out impatiently into a sort of painful
half-laugh, as his eye caught his wife's maiden name. "What folly!"
cried he. "What sheer, unqualified folly! Polly Anne!--just fancy!
Why--she _is_ my wife: nothing can make her anything else." And then he
went on to the postscript.
"POSTSCRIPT.--I have taken away the children, because they are my
own. You can ask Mr. Tillingfleet--because he told me--I suppose a
lawyer knows----" Here the writing turned sideways, running up the
paper-edge: "It is no use your coming to see me--my mind is made up."
Then a further continuation, rather illegible on the paper-edge,
Challis made out to be: "I will not say, God forgive you, because you
do not believe in God."
Challis sat still after reading this, becoming calmer, and thinking. At
last he said: "It's all nonsense! Polly Anne will come back fast enough
when I've got the kids back. She can't keep _them_." He seemed quite
satisfied of it.
He thought he should not sleep if he went to bed. But he did both,
and was a sad man in an empty house when he awoke late from a happy
oblivion, and slow remembrance came.