HOW CHALLIS AND JUDITH MET AGAIN AT TROUT BEND, AND TALKED IT OVER.
HOW SHE CRIED OFF, FEELING SECURE. AND OF THE ARRANGEMENT THEY MADE.
OF A CENTENARIAN WHO GOT HALF-A-SOVEREIGN
It was early morning at Trout Bend, and the man who sat on the
moss-grown beechen root this story told of--more than a year ago
now--was turning over in his heart all that had come about in that
short time, and trying to say to himself point-blank that it was no
fault of his own. He succeeded in saying it--said it aloud in words,
that there should be no doubt at all about it. He said it twice, in
fact, and seemed in the end dissatisfied.
Every little incident of the day's life seemed to throw doubt on the
point. The discordant jay that shrieked in the thicket as good as cried
out "Liar!" and fluttered away disgusted. The squirrel that paused
half-way up the beech-trunk had an air of shocked reproach in his very
large and startled eye, and when he moved again seemed to want to get
out of the way as soon as possible, and to mix with sincere Society
again. The fish that leaped in the pool had come to the surface this
time, clearly, to say to Challis: "We have met before, and _my_ life
has not changed. Yours has, and you have only yourself to thank for it!
Why need you leave your native waters uncompelled?"
Challis denied the suggestion his own mind had made. He had had
to share in what followed; his exodus from those waters had been
compulsory. Or, rather, was it not true that the waters had drained
away from him, and left him to find another pool downstream, or
die unnourished on the dry sands? But it was a metaphor that rang
false, and he dismissed it impatiently; the more so that some mental
distortion, akin to the one he invented the strange name for, must
needs intrude an unwarranted image of an angler with rod and line, and
rouse him to an indignant denial of that angler's identity. Whose fault
soever it was, it was none of Judith's.
And as he thought this, there she was herself, crossing the little
plank bridge where the convict dropped the ring, and found it again so
many years too late.
He was on his feet in a moment, and on his way to meet her. He had a
double-barrelled kiss ready on his lips, supposing the coast clear
at the moment of their meeting. Saladin, who was present, was in
confidence, and didn't count. Botheration take that old woman gathering
sticks!--did she matter?
Judith thought so, evidently, and payment had to wait. "Company!" said
she. She was looking as beautiful as ever--more so! "She's a hundred
and two, I believe," she added. "But one has to lay down a rule in
these matters, and stick to it." She was referring to the old woman,
who most likely neither saw nor heard, or if she did, only harked back
to eighty years ago, and thought, "Why not?"
All Challis's cloud of doubt and self-reproach vanished as her
consolatory hand lay in his arm. Something of her masterful nature was
in the touch of it, communicable through nerve-currents. It reassured
him, and he could respond to its pressure, old woman or no!
It was an arranged meeting: much taken for granted. Conversation to
go on presently where our last meeting left it. Meanwhile, short
recognitions of current event.
"When did you come?"
"The day before yesterday."
"The voice of gossip cannot say you followed me down here. Not that it
would matter!"
"I fancy we are pretty transparent." Challis dismissed the matter as a
slight interest only. "Are we peaceful at the Hall?"
"Oh--well! One short row--a very small one! It's rather unfortunate
that some people who were expected have cried off. And another gang
had just gone. So my dear parents ... to whom I am really devoted;
and they are so good and upright and that sort of thing ... what was
I saying about them?--oh yes!--my dear parents and I were alone. It
was unlucky." Challis threw up his eyebrows very slightly, and made a
barely audible note of interrogation through closed lips. She replied
to it: "Yes--the usual sort of thing." And they walked on slowly arm in
arm, not speaking.
Presently the lady resumed, seeming always the more talkative of the
two: "Compulsory truce this evening, I suppose. Most likely Sibyl
and Frank, who, I understand, is ridiculous about Sib. Besides, Mr.
What's-his-name is coming ... what _is_ his name?"...
"Tell me who he is, and I'll see if I know."
"Oh dear!--man that talks metaphysics...."
"Brownrigg?"
"Of course! Brownrigg. Well!--he's coming this afternoon, so we've only
time for a very short allowance of Family Life. I suspect Brownrigg of
having an Attraction down here, but I can't for the life of me find out
who it is!"
"Attractions are feminine?"
"Always."
"Otherwise I should have thought it might be the Rector."
"The Reverend Athelstan--dear good man! Oh no--it's a lady! It always
is. But did the Reverend speak of Broadribb--Brownrigg?"
"I've got an impression that he has been at the Rectory more than
once--considerably more. Couldn't exactly say why?"
"There's nothing feminine there--at the Rectory."
Challis was beginning, "Oh yes!--there's ..." when Judith's outburst of
laughter cut him short.
"Dear Aunt Bessy! She's forty.... Oh yes, I know she's worthy!" She
laughed more than need was; then recovered her gravity, and said, as
though she feared her laughter might have grated on her companion: "Not
to laugh at the good lady?--is that it? Very well." Judith's mockery
for once seemed just short of charming to her lover, to whom it was
usually one of her happiest contrasts to Marianne's unsympathetic
reverence for so many things her husband's derision classed as
beadledom. This time he would have preferred that the time-honoured
practice of making game of old maidenhood should have been touched with
a lighter hand. There was suggestion of a consciousness of this in
Judith's next words: "It was your fault, you know, Titus, for hinting
at Brownrigg. It was quite too funny."
Her fascination reasserted itself; indeed, its wavering had been of the
slightest, and had not lasted long enough for acknowledgment. "I admit
it was a laughable notion," said Challis. "However, I don't think an
enchantress is necessary in this case. Athelstan Taylor would account
for anything, and you know he is liberality itself towards all new
ideas. He told me yesterday he thought Graubosch a most interesting
personality."
"Did you--you say you had come yesterday?"
"No--the night before."
"You and the great Yorick--isn't that what his friend Miss Foster calls
him?--haven't been talking of Graubosch all that time?"
"Fossett. Oh dear no! We have been talking chiefly of...." A pause.
"... Well!--of _our_ affairs."
"Meaning yours and mine. _Eh bien!_--and what says Sir Oracle?...
No, no!--no irreverence, indeed!... oh no!--you _said_ nothing. But
you have such a mobile countenance." A shade of protest had been
detectable, presumably, in Challis's face, and he had disclaimed it.
"Meaning your affairs and mine," said he, with only a pooh-pooh smile
for the sub-colloquy. "Sir Oracle is in opposition."
"I knew he would be--dear good man! You'll tell me I'm sneering, I
know--but I'm not--if I say...."
"What?"
"That his is such a beautiful unworldly character. I can tell you
exactly what he said to you."
"Then, dearest, I needn't tell _you_. Fire away!"
"He said we must on no account take an irrevocable step in a hurry; and
must trust to Providence to keep His eye on the Lords when the division
comes, and make sure of a majority against the Bill."
"He said something not very unlike it. A good shot! But he never
suggested that Providence was disposed to consider our interests. I
must admit that I don't see why Providence should. My own attitude
has hardly been conciliatory." Challis then went on to give a fairer
version of what the Rector had said. As he spoke, a touch of scorn came
on the beautiful face beside him, and grew and grew. And he fancied the
pressure of the hand on his sleeve lightened.
"A thorough business man's view!" said Judith, when he stopped.
"Scarcely so unworldly on the whole as our good Yorick generally is! I
don't know, though, whether I ought to say that. Beautiful unworldly
characters manage their affairs unselfishly only because...."
"Because they think Providence will act as their agent? Is that what
you were going to say?"
"Well!--they always boast that it pays best in the long run. Anyhow,
this clearly _was_ the business view. To the business mind, with its
faith in Law and Order and Representative Government and things,
nothing can be clearer. You and Marianne have cried off a compact
Law and Order condemned, while you still had a right to do so. Is it
creditable that the New Act will tie you together again, willy-nilly?"
"Dearest!--try to see my difficulty. Don't think me cowardly or
politic; only believe that it _is_ a difficulty to me, and a serious
one. Suppose us wedded--to-morrow--before the passing of the Act,
anyhow! Suppose that when it comes it legitimates retrospectively every
marriage that was not acknowledged void by _both_ parties while it was
still an unlawful one!"
Judith withdrew her hand and looked away. "Have you not acknowledged
the illegitimacy of yours?" she said coldly.
"In a sense I have." Challis was evidently flinching under his
consciousness of his position.
"I do not like 'in a sense,' Titus. Is Marianne your wife or not?"
"Listen to me, dearest!" He would have replaced her hand in his arm,
but she withstood his doing so, partly qualifying her resistance by a
pretence of finding Saladin's whistle. He continued pleadingly: "Think
what it would be for me if at some future time my two little girls were
to suffer from a reproach their brother does not share, and charge me
with giving my boy a better hold on the world than they could lay claim
to...."
"It was their reproach from the beginning...."
"Yes--yes! But suppose this Act would, but for me, have conferred
legitimacy retrospectively...."
"How 'but for you'?"
"Why--clearly! It might include in its retrospective action only such
marriages as were held valid by one or other party at the date of the
passing of the Bill. Mumps and Chobbles might be legitimate or no,
according to my attitude towards their mother about our separation. It
seems to me that my having refused to acknowledge it might make all the
difference...." Challis paused awkwardly. For he had suddenly become
aware that he was adducing reasons in plenty why he should not marry
Judith at all. He had not meant his argument to go that length. He was
only showing one form the Nemesis of Repentance might take in the event
of the immediate passing of the Act. He was losing sight of the fact
that if the Bill was thrown out, all his reasonings would apply just as
much to a more leisurely union during the twelvemonth of respite.
The fact is he wanted to eat his cake and have it too--to get the
advantage of the Act for his children and to avoid the guillotine
himself. If he and Judith were not married in time, either their
project would be made impossible, or at best the problem of justice or
injustice to the children would stand over _sine die_, with all its
present difficulties unsolved. If, on the other hand, they got married,
the Act could only benefit his children by affirming his marriage with
their mother a lawful one, and declaring Judith the second wife of a
bigamist. Unless, indeed, a dexterous special clause in it gave his
rupture with Marianne the validity of a divorce. Not a very likely
provision of legal ingenuity!
How little idea the old lady gathering sticks must have had of what
the gentleman was talking--talking--talking about to the lady, whose
undisturbed beauty seemed to make no response, or barely a word now
and then! Her centenarian mind probably thought it was only the usual
thing--the use of eighty odd years agone, when she first knew of it;
and so till now, except folk were changed since then.
But the gentleman would have done well to say less. None of his
earnestness, none of his perturbation--none of his Law, none of his
Logic--made matters a bit better. In one way they made it worse. A
sense of a painful contingency crept in that had hardly had sufficient
consideration. How if in the labyrinth of possibilities that sheer
Legalism can construct over the grave of Fair Play there was really
hidden a possible indictment for bigamy? If Challis married Judith,
his first wife being still alive, with the reservation that the latter
wasn't his wife at all, how then? Could he even obtain a Special
Licence at Doctors' Commons? He would have to declare that no legal
impediment existed, and to satisfy the Archbishop of Canterbury that
his reasons for wanting it were sound. Perhaps his Grace would be
crusty, and refuse it, to spite him for marrying his Deceased Wife's
Sister. However, the idea of a piqued Prelate hitting below the belt
in this way relieved a growing tension, and brought a smile into the
matter.
Challis was glad to shift away from a perplexity. After a pause of
silence he said: "Do you remember how we walked here--more than a year
ago--and you told me you had given up the idea of Estrild?"
Judith replaced the hand she had taken away. "Oh, so well!" said she.
"I was so sorry. But it seems to me that if my dearly-beloved family
are going to quarrel with me about my marriage, I deserve to play
Estrild as a set-off. I shall think about it."
They came to the coppice-wood, and the half-shade of its light and
shadow-chequered path was grateful; for the sun was mounting, and his
heat beginning to tell. Saladin brushed roughly past them, to see--at
a guess--that all the tree-stems were in order. Judith leaned a little
more on the arm she held.
"Do you remember," said she, "how I called you Scroop, and how funny it
made you look? Oh dear, how strange it does all seem!"
"I remember. And how I couldn't well call you Judith back. Would you
have been offended?"
"Should I ever have been offended at anything you did, dear love?" Her
hand was pressed between his arm and the other hand, that had come
across to caress it.
The two of them had the little secluded path well to themselves;
certainly Saladin didn't count. Now was the time for those kisses
that had waited, and others, if need were. Challis, as he took Judith
Arkroyd to his heart, felt his own past grow insignificant and dim.
This was Life!
A phantasmagoric presentment of Great Coram Street and Wimbledon ran
rapidly across the background of his mind. It was wonderful how many
images he could feel the dimness of at once. Even so, the man who fell
off the Monument marvelled at the incredible grasp of his powers of
recollection, stung to a paroxysm of self-assertion. Why need so many
things appeal to be forgotten; each one a bygone to itself; a faint
spark, surely, but craving a separate extinction? He could feel--oh
yes!--he could feel--that the nourishments of his life in those days
were the merest refreshments. This was a banquet! He had attained to
a satiety of Love. But why need those all-but-forgotten satisfactions
of an unpretentious past thrust in their claims for recollection, each
with its ill-timed reproach--"You did not despise us then!"?
There was no need for him to forget Kate. She was little more now than
a bad misadventure of his early life. But there was many a little
memory of Marianne in the earlier days that he would have to oust
from the future unless his every hour was to be cross-textured with
a weft of self-reproach. One little paltry thing went near to madden
him with its importunity. Could he never touch the damask cheek of his
enchantress of to-day without an intrusion into his mind of--Marianne's
mole? Too ridiculous!--many will say. But there it was--the mole--back
in this man's inner vision, to plague him with a reminder of that
long-ago when he rallied its proprietor--Marianne was eighteen then--on
its possession, but congratulated himself at the same time that it was
not in the best place.
The story knows Challis too well to attempt to make the oddities of his
mind plausible; it can only vouch for them. About minds it cannot vouch
for, only speculation is open to it. It makes no pretence to know the
inner heart of the beautiful woman whom he conceives to be so entirely
his own. Whether what followed was, on her part, schemed to make all
wavering on his impossible, and to bind that skein of his life fast in
hers, or whether it was really what it seemed, she alone could tell.
The story has no blame for her, mind, if it was the former! She was
within her rights--every woman's rights.
"Oh, Scroop--dear Titus--dear love! Let's have done with it and forget
it all--all! It can never be, and we both know it." He had released her
waist at some sound of footsteps approaching them as they stood in the
pathway, but had kept her hands in his. Whoever it was was not in sight
yet.
"'Odsbodikins, dearest, why--why--why? Why this of a sudden, out of the
blue?"
"No--dearest--no!--it is truth. I _am_ in earnest, indeed. It _cannot_
be!" He would have taken her in his arms again, but her outstretched
hand on his breast repelled him. "It must come to an end, and we know
it.... No--do not!..."
"Then tell me, darling, quietly; why not--why now!"
"Listen, Scroop! I see it all so clearly. Yorick is right--good,
clear-sighted man! If we get married in a mad hurry, under pressure,
just to avoid this legislative Bill business...."
"Cutting the ground from under our feet? Yes!"
"We may, as he says, live to repent it. After all, we are human!" The
footsteps drew nearer--became a passing boy--caused a pause, and died
away, leaving Judith to continue: "Suppose that all goes ill, and
our fruits turn out Dead Sea apples, and so on! Suppose that you are
disappointed in me!..."
"Never!"
"Foolish man, how can you tell?... However, this you _can_ see: that
if we fell out, you and I, anyhow, it would be a bitter thought to you
that you had sacrificed your girls for my sake, as you would have done!
You said so yourself, and I see it."
"The blame would not be mine." Challis got it said, but only just.
He knew at least that he was dishonest in shirking his share of the
blame. He went on to excuse, and, of course, accuse, himself. "What
right had Marianne to imagine infidelities for me?... Yes!--I grant
you 'infidelity' is a long word. But see what I mean, and think of
it Marianne had not a particle of evidence that ... that you were to
me ... anything that any other lady is not. She was just as wrong in
building false constructions on no grounds at all...."
"On no grounds at all? Be fair to Marianne!"
"Well--on very little!... She was just as unjust in using what she
_did_ know to condemn me as if the things she did _not_ know had never
happened. The accident of the postscript might have happened a thousand
times with any stranger. As to anything else that had passed between
you and me, Marianne chose to take action without a particle of proof,
and she is to blame for the consequence. Yes, Judith; if Marianne
hadn't acted as she did, I should have locked you out of my heart, and
gone my way in silence."
"Would you?" asked Judith. It might have been reproach; but, then, it
might have been mere questioning of his words. Challis gave himself
the benefit of the doubt, and let Judith go on. "And if you had, do
you think Marianne wouldn't have found you out? Oh, Scroop, Scroop, do
you think women have no eyes?" She had a half-laugh for what she ended
with: "You and your proofs and particles of evidence!"
He gave up the point. "Then let us whitewash Marianne," said he, "and
make it all my fault. How much nearer are we--how much nearer to plain
sailing? It seems to me I have to choose between a chance--only a
chance, mind you!--of a legal sanction for the babies ... and, really,
dearest, it's not a thing I have ever fretted much about...."
"But you ought to have. What's the other choice?"
"... Between a chance of legitimacy for them and a certainty of
not losing you. Can you wonder that I, thinking as I do of these
legalities, should choose the last?"
"Listen, Scroop, and don't puzzle me with any more arguments. You make
my head spin. I can only see the thing as I believe any woman would see
it. This Parliamentary business may cut us asunder for ever; because
you know if the Bill passes you won't be able to divorce Marianne. If
I am to give you up, I want to do it here and now--to get it done and
part at once, for good...."
"I cannot give you up...."
"And we cannot linger on through a life of miserable uncertainty. Fancy
it!--next year the whole question over again--the same doubts--the same
arguments! No--let us part and have done with it!"
"You do not mean what you say."
"Perhaps not. Perhaps I am only flinching like a coward from a life
that might be unendurable. I would rather have my tooth out altogether
than have it ache for a twelvemonth. So what can I say now? I am ready,
if it can be arranged--that I don't know about...."
He interrupted her. "And I am ready--more than ready!" And this time
she did not repel him as he took her in his arms.
"But mind, dearest," said she, "if it were a certainty about the little
girls, I should still say we ought to hesitate. But...."
"But it isn't certainty--even if the Bill passes ever so!" He sealed
the compact on her lips--on her cheeks. It was a _fait accompli_.
But nothing could keep all those memories of the past quite, quite in
the background. They were all in evidence--dim evidence; yes!--even
that confounded mole on Marianne's cheek.
* * * * *
The day had become quite hot when the centenarian faggot-binder saw the
lady and the great dog say adieu to the gentleman in the light summer
suit, and noted with some satisfaction that the adieu was a loving one.
The gentleman seemed to watch the vanishing sunshade, in such request
against the heat, across the little bridge and out of sight, to the
last; then lit a cigar, and, passing near her, said "Good-morning," and
unprovokedly gave her what she thought a welcome sixpence. That old
lady and her great-great-grandchild called at the Hall next day to say
the gentleman had given her half-a-sovereign by mistake, and, inquiry
connecting the gentleman with Miss Arkroyd, procured the opinion of the
latter that of course the gentleman meant old Mrs. Inderwick to have
it. Who thereupon consigned it to a Georgian purse, and departed with
benedictions.
But before Challis and Judith parted they had planned their campaign.
And it only just came short of a prompt marriage by special licence.
Concession was made on two points; one was regarded as almost out
of court--namely, the chance that such a union could be regarded as
bigamous. For was it conceivable that a law that quashed his paternity
of his own children could indict him for his marriage with their
mother? It seemed grotesque; but was worth a word, in view of the
pranks of Themis.
The other point was this: So great a certainty might exist among
political informants that the Bill would be thrown out in the Lords
as to make the proposed step a ridiculously strained precaution, and
needless under the circumstances. Unanimity of one or two strong
Parliamentary authorities would be practical certainty, if they held to
their opinions up to the brink of the division. If the political sky
changed, causing them to waver, prompt action might be necessary.
In any case Challis was to procure a special licence, to be used or
otherwise, at discretion, the date chosen being as late as he should
think safe under the circumstances. Several minor difficulties had
to be disposed of, but the only point necessary to the story is that
Judith was to hold herself in readiness to become a bride at a short
notice, and that Challis was to be answerable for time and place and
the making of all the necessary arrangements. Trousseaux, travelling
gear, and the like, did not need consideration at present. For, in
fact, both parties distinctly understood this marriage to be a mere
precautionary measure, legally irrevocable, but otherwise _nil_.
The bride would return to her paternal hearth, and might even make
no allusion to the little event of the morning. The birds would not
nest, but their names would be entered as man and wife on some parish
register.
Challis said nothing to Athelstan Taylor of this scheme. He did not
wish to put his friend to the necessity of either concealing it and
assenting to it, or declaring it and fighting it. It seemed to him
that the Rector would be compelled to an attitude of protest by his
position, and that the most prudent as well as the fairest course for
himself would be to hold his tongue.
So he finished his visit at the Rectory, and said farewell.