Even in the dusty glare of a dusty July sun, one of the largest houses
in Queen's Gardens looked cool and pleasant with its delicate shades
of grey on wall and portico, its striped jalousies and tiled window
gardens gay with scarlet geraniums, yellow calceolarias, and blue
lobelias; flowers, all of them, which seem somehow to have lost their
flowerfulness by being so constantly associated in one's mind with
area railings, barrel organs, and the eternal rat-tat of the postman's
knock--to be brief, with London. For all the passer-by knew or cared,
those lines of brilliant red, yellow, and blue blossoms might have
been cunningly composed of paper, and would have served their purpose
to the full as well had they been so, since no one, even inside the
house, ever looked on them in the light of living, breathing plants
going through a process of asphyxiation. It is difficult no doubt to
resist the temptation to have pot-plants in London, but how often when
brought face to face with the hideous ravages which a day or two of
its poisonous atmosphere makes on our favourites has not the true
flower-lover felt nothing short of murder. The inhabitants of the
house in Queen's Gardens, however, had not even this chance for
remorse, since the boxes were kept bright by contract, and if any poor
plant was ill-advised enough to droop and complain, it was promptly
rooted up and replaced by the man who came in the early mornings to
"walk the hospitals" before the family appeared on the scene.
Within the house, the same spick and span, utterly impersonal
attention to beauty prevailed. From basement to attic it was simply
perfect in its appointments. As it might well be, since an artist in
copper utensils had been let loose in the kitchen, the greatest
authority in the world on wall papers had been allowed his will in
friezes and dados; and so on from cellar to roof. There is, of course,
a good deal to be said in favour of this modern specialism. It is
distinctly comforting to know, that if you have not reached
perfection, you have at any rate paid for it; but to some barbarians
the loss of individuality in such houses is very grievous. To begin
with, you lose a most delightful study of character. And after all, if
Mrs. Jones has a sneaking admiration for a pea-green carpet with pink
cabbage roses sprinkled over it, why, in heaven's name, should she
conceal the fact? No green that ever was dyed is greener than grass,
no flower that ever was woven is half as brilliant as the
blossom-mosaic which Nature spreads for you to tread upon when the
snow melts from the upland Alps. Yet the house was charming enough in
detail if a little confusing _en masse_ to those sensitive to their
surroundings; since the drawing-room was Queen Anne, the dining-room
Tudor, and various other corridors and apartments Japanesque,
Renaissance, Early English, or Pompeian.
This again did not affect the inmates, who, indeed, would have scorned
to feel as if time and space had been annihilated in the course of
half-a-dozen steps; such fanciful imaginations being almost wicked,
when time and space were distinctly necessary to the due performance
of your duty in that state of life to which it had pleased Providence
to call you.
On this particular morning in July, Mr. and Mrs. Woodward and their
daughter Alice were seated at the breakfast table in the usual
comfortable indifferent silence of people who keep a diary of outside
engagements in a conspicuous place on the writing-table, and whose
inner lives move in decorous procession from morn till eve. A canary
was singing joyfully, but at the same time keeping a watchful eye on
the grey Persian cat which walked up and down rubbing itself, as it
passed and repassed, against Mrs. Woodward's gown, with an anxious
look on the bread and milk she was crumbling for it. Mr. Woodward, at
the other side of a central palm tree, studied the share list. Miss
Alice Woodward, who had evidently come down later than the others, was
still engaged listlessly on toast and butter; finally making a remark
in an undertone to her mother that as Jack had settled to ride with
her in the Park at eleven, she supposed it was about time to get
ready; a remark which resulted in her pushing away her plate
languidly.
"You have eaten no breakfast, my dear, and you are looking pale," said
her mother, comfortably; "I will get you some more Blaud's from the
Stores."
"Oh! I'm all right," replied the girl. "It's hot, and--and things are
tiresome. They generally are at the end of the season, aren't they?"
She drifted easily, rather aimlessly, out of the room. Like everything
else in the house she was costly and refined; pretty in herself but
without any individuality. For the rest, blonde and graceful, with a
faintly discontented droop of the mouth, and large, full, china-blue
eyes.
Mr. Woodward watched her retreat furtively till the door closed behind
her, then laid down his paper and addressed his wife with the air of a
man who attends strictly to business. That was, in fact, his attitude
towards his daughter at all times. He did not, he said, understand
girls, but he did his duty by them.
"I heard from Macleod this morning, my dear."
Mrs. Woodward went on crumbling bread gently, and there was a pause.
"Well, what does he say?"
"That the house will be ready for visitors by the 8th of next month,
and that it will give him great pleasure to welcome us as soon after
that date as we can manage."
"Nothing more?"
"Only the old story; that he is most anxious for our consent in order
that he may speak definitely. There, read it yourself, a sensible,
gentlemanly letter. I really don't think she could do better."
His tone was precisely what it would have been had he been
recommending the purchase of debenture stock in a safe concern.
"Then I suppose we may consider it settled; I mean, if Alice likes the
place."
"Just so; but I'm told it is charming; there is a man--in
hooks-and-eyes, by the way--who has the moor next it. I met him at the
Kitcheners' dinner. He said it only wanted money, and she will bring
that. Besides, the man himself is all that can be desired, even by a
girl."
Mrs. Woodward nodded her head. "Yes, that is such a comfort, and Lady
George is so nice. Alice is quite fond of her, which is a great point
with a sister-in-law. In fact, everything seems most satisfactory."
She paused a moment, and a faint shade of doubt showed on her face.
"Only, of course, there is Jack."
"Jack! heaven and earth, Sophia! what has Jack to do with it?"
"Nothing, of course, only you know, or at any rate you might have seen
that he--well, that he may object."
Mr. Woodward's face passed from sheer amazement to that peculiar
expression of virtuous indignation which so many English fathers
reserve for those who, without a nomination, have the temerity to
admire their daughters.
"Jack! that boy Jack?"
"He is older than Alice, my dear," put in his wife, with meek
obstinacy. She, on the contrary, was smiling, for, no matter how
ineligible the victim, a scalp is always a scalp to a mother; and
Jack was not ineligible. On the contrary, he was the head of the
soap-boiling business, now that her husband had received a
consideration for his interest, and retired into the more genteel
trade of blowing soap bubbles on 'Change.
"Pooh!" retorted Mr. Woodward, angrily, "if he is troublesome send him
to me, I'll settle him. The lad must marry position, like Alice." He
paused, and his manner changed. "You don't, of course, mamma,
insinuate that--that Alice--that your daughter has been foolish
enough----"
Mrs. Woodward rose with dignity, and gave the cat its bread and milk.
"_My_ daughter is a dear, good, sensible girl, Mr. Woodward; but that
doesn't alter the fact that your _nephew_ may be foolish. I consider
it extremely likely that he may be; it runs in the family."
Mr. Woodward took up the share list again, using it--after the manner
of his kind when in domestic difficulties--as a shield, and his wife
put a fresh lump of sugar in the canary's cage, saw to its seed and
water, and left the room placidly. The bird was her bird, the cat her
cat, and therefore she did her duty by them. In the same conscientious
spirit she interviewed the housekeeper and ordered a very good dinner
for her husband because he was her husband. Some people have the knack
of getting a vast deal of purely selfish satisfaction out of their own
virtues. Finally, she went into the morning-room, and began to think
over the best way of doing her duty by her daughter also; for there
was this difficulty in the way, here, that she and Alice were too much
alike for sympathy. They found each other out continually, and, what
is more, placidly disapproved of the various little weaknesses they
shared in common. It is this inevitable likeness which is really at
the bottom of that state of affairs, which is expressed in the
feminine phrase, "they don't get on at home, somehow." But Alice was
not a revolting daughter. Apart from other considerations, she would
have thought it vulgar not to behave nicely to her parents, while Mrs.
Woodward herself would have felt her complacent self-respect
endangered if she had not had a high estimate of her own child; and
Alice was, in this aspect, a far easier subject than her brother Sam,
who, to tell truth, gave even his mother a few qualms in regard to his
personal appearance.
But Alice was perfect in that respect, simply perfect. Not too
pronouncedly pretty; not the sort of girl whose photograph would be
put up surreptitiously in the shop windows, but really quite
unexceptionable as she came in to her mother's room and stood at the
window in her trim habit waiting for the horses to come round. Then
she turned to her mother composedly.
"Father had a letter from Captain Macleod this morning, hadn't he?
When does he expect us?"
Mrs. Woodward gave a sigh of relief. It was an advantage sometimes to
be seen through, especially when you were anxious to give a word of
warning before that long ride with Jack in the Park, and you did not
quite know how to set about it.
"On the 8th; that will suit your father nicely; he will have done his
meetings by then. And you will like the change, won't you, darling?"
"Immensely, of course. Then we had better go round to Redfern's to-day
and order tailor-made things; something that looks rough, you know,
but isn't. I hate rough things, they make me feel creepy. Ah! there is
Jack coming round the gardens. Good-bye, dearest."
She stooped to kiss her mother dutifully ere leaving, and Mrs.
Woodward seized the opportunity.
"Good-bye, darling, and before you go, Alice, about Jack."
"What about Jack, mamma?"
"You might tell him--perhaps."
"What shall I tell him?" asked the girl, a trifle petulantly. "That we
are going down to stay at Gleneira with the Macleods. That is really
all there is to tell--as yet."
"I know that, my dear; still--still it would be better if Jack did not
follow you about so much."
"Of course, it would be better, and I have told him so often; I will
tell him again, if you like, so don't be anxious, you good, pretty
little mamma. I am very fond of Jack--he is a dear fellow--but I don't
intend to marry him. I see quite well how foolish it would be for us
both."
Mrs. Woodward, as she watched the riders pass down the road, told
herself that Alice was one in a thousand, and deserved to be happy, as
no doubt she would be if she married Paul Macleod, who was so very
nice-looking. This point of good looks was one upon which Mrs.
Woodward laid great insistence, and it enabled her to spend the next
hour or two in finishing a sentimental novel in which the lovers,
after sternly rejecting the counsels of parents and guardians, were
rewarded in the third volume with £50,000 a year and a baronetcy. For,
like most mothers, poor Mrs. Woodward was sadly at sea on the
matrimonial question. Its romantic side appealed to her fancy, its
business side to her experience, since no woman can have done her duty
in the married state for a quarter of a century without seeing that
where personal pleasure has been the motive power in one point, sheer
personal self-abnegation has been the motive in ten.
Meanwhile the cousins, after cantering round the Row, had reined in
their horses for a walk. Alice rode well, and the exercise had brought
an unwonted animation to her appearance. Jack, on the other hand, was
a tall, burly young fellow, a trifle over-dressed, but otherwise
unobjectionable, looked his best, with a heartwhole admiration for his
companion on his honest face. What a pretty couple they would make,
thought an old spinster, taking her constitutional in Kensington
Gardens, and began straightway to dream of a certain hunt ball where
someone had danced with her five times before supper. How many times
afterwards she had never had to confess, even to her twin sister;
thanks to the extras, which, of course, need not count. And yet
nothing had come of it! And just as she got so far in her
reminiscences Alice was saying to Jack pleasantly, "I shall miss these
rides of ours, Jack, shan't you?"
"Why should you miss them?" he asked anxiously, for there was a
superior wisdom in her tone which he knew and dreaded. "I'm going down
to Heddingford when you go. We can ride there."
"But we are going to Scotland first; didn't mamma tell you? We are to
stay with Captain Macleod."
Poor Jack's heart gave a great throb of pain.
"Macleod?" he echoed, "that is the tall, handsome fellow, isn't it,
who used to hang round you before I came up from the works?"
This allusion to Paul's good looks was unfortunate, since Jack's were
not improved by the sudden flush which crimsoned even his ears.
"I don't know what you mean by hanging round," retorted the girl,
quickly. "It is a very vulgar expression."
This again was unwise, for Jack, knowing his strong point was not
refinement, felt instantly superior to such trivialities, and took the
upper hand.
"Call it what you like, Ally. You know perfectly well what I mean, and
what he meant, too."
There was no denying it, and, after all, why should it be denied? Had
she not a right to have other lovers besides Jack?
"Let us come for another canter," she said, in the tone of voice which
an elder sister might have used to a troublesome little brother, who
required to be coaxed out of ill humour. "There is no use being cross
about it, you know."
She went a little too far, and roused him into laying his hand on her
rein, abruptly. And the action startled her, for she hated any display
of emotion, being, in truth, totally unaccustomed to it.
"Not yet, Ally! I want to have this out first. It is time I did. And
yet I don't know how to begin; perhaps because it never had a
beginning. I've always cared for you--you know that. Ever since----"
the young man's eyes grew moist suddenly over some childish
recollection, and then an almost savage look came to his face. "And
you--you cared. I'm sure you cared----"
Some people have the knack of saying the wrong thing, and in this case
poor Jack Woodward gave his mistress a handle both to her pride and
her prudence.
"Care," she echoed, in a patronising tone. "Of course, Jack, I cared.
I cared for you very much, and I care for you now. So much so that I
am not going to let you be foolish any more. We didn't understand what
things really meant in those old days----"
"You don't understand now," he broke in hotly.
"Don't I," she continued; "perhaps I don't, for I don't really see
what there is to make such a fuss about. And it is very selfish----"
"Do you mean to say that it is selfish of me to love you?" he cried.
"Selfish to----"
She interrupted him again with the same facile wisdom.
"Very selfish, if we stand in each other's way. And, after all, Jack,
what we both need to make life really successful is something we
have neither of us got. We are only soap-boilers, you know, and
society----"
"Society!" he echoed sternly. "What has society to do with it? I
didn't think you were so worldly."
"I am not worldly," she retorted, in quite an aggrieved tone; "unless,
indeed, it is worldly to be sensible, to think of you as well as of
myself--to be unselfish and straightforward."
"Straightforward! What, do you call it straightforward to let me hang
round you as I have done?"
"Really, Jack, you are _impayable_ with your hangings round! Can you
not find a less objectionable phrase?"
She was fencing with him, and he saw it, saw it and resented it with
the almost coarse resentment of a nature stronger and yet less
obstinate than hers.
"Yes, if you like. I'll say you have played fast and loose with me--as
you have. You have known for years that I cared for you, and that I
intended to marry you. And when a girl allows that sort of thing to go
on without a word, and doesn't mean it, I say she is a flirt--a
heartless flirt, and I have nothing more to do with her."
He turned his horse as he spoke, and without another word rode off,
leaving her to go home with the groom. Inexcusable violence, no doubt.
Alice told herself so again and again in the vain effort to get rid of
a certain surprised remorse, for the girl was emphatically a moral
coward, and any display of high-handed resentment, so far from rousing
her opposition, invariably made her doubtful of her own wisdom. She
hated scenes most cordially, hated, above all things, to have
opprobrious epithets hurled at her; for she clung with almost piteous
tenacity to her own virtue. It was too hard, too unkind of Jack to
blame her, and yet despite this, his condemnation seemed to dim that
lodestar of her firmament--common sense. After all, if he liked her,
why should they not marry? Why should such devotion be sacrificed to
the Moloch of position? In truth, as she thought over the incident, an
odd mixture of anger and regret came to upset her usual placidity, so
that, much to her own surprise, she broke down helplessly into tears
over her mother's conventional inquiry as to how she had enjoyed her
ride. Nor could she find any reason for this unwonted emotion, beyond
the fact that Jack had been brutal and called her a flirt, and had
ridden away, declaring that he would have nothing more to say to her.
That such would be the case Mrs. Woodward, as she administered sal
volatile and talked about the trying heat, felt was most devoutly to
be wished; but a long course of three volume novels warned her of the
danger of trusting to the permanence of lovers' quarrels. So after her
daughter had been provided with darkness and eau-de-cologne, and a
variety of other feminine remedies against the evil effects of
emotion, she went off to her own sitting-room to consider the position
by the light of her five-and-forty years of human experience. To begin
with, the girl's feelings were clearly more deeply implicated than
she, or for the matter of that Alice herself, had imagined. The
question, therefore, came uppermost whether this fact ought to be
admitted or deprecated; whether in short this evident dislike to
giving her cousin pain was the result of a romantic attachment or
simply the natural kindliness of a girl for a young fellow she had
known from infancy. Now the cogitations of mothers over their
daughters' matrimonial prospects are always fair game for both
moralist and novelist. For some mysterious reason the least display of
prudence is considered worldly; yet, on the face of it, a woman who
has had, say, five-and-twenty years of married life cannot possibly
fail to see how much of her own life has been made or marred by
influences which she never considered in accepting Dick, Tom, or
Harry. In nine cases out of ten it is the remembrance of her own
ignorance which makes her espouse the cause of the lover who can bring
the greatest number of chances for content. And it is idle to deny,
for instance, that a girl marrying into a family which will welcome
her is far less likely to quarrel with her husband than one who is
looked on askance by her mother-in-law. There is, in sober truth, an
immense deal to be said in favour of the French theory which holds
that given a favourable nidus, and kindly atmosphere, the germ of
happiness is more likely to grow into a goodly tree, and bear fruit a
thousandfold, than when it is planted in a hurry by two inexperienced
gardeners in the first pot which they fancy in the great Mart. Owing,
however, to our somewhat startling views as to the sanctity of the
romantic passion over the claims of duty towards oneself and others,
these minor considerations are considered mercenary to the last
degree, and the mother who is courageous enough to confess them openly
is held up to obloquy. Why, it is difficult to say, since none of us
really believe in the popular theory. It will not hold water for an
instant when put to the practical test of experience; even if we leave
out of consideration the fact that fully one-half of the people one
meets have never felt, and have never felt the desire to feel, an
absorbing passion.
Mrs. Woodward, for instance, had not; moreover she had brought Alice
up from the cradle to share her views of life, and had never once
found her way barred by any bias towards a more passionate outlook. In
fact, she was, in her mother's estimate, the very last girl in the
world to find sentiment soothing. On the contrary, it distressed her,
made her cry, necessitated her lying down with smelling-salts and a
hot-bottle. Then above all things she loved a certain refined
distinction and exclusiveness. Even as a child she had held her head
high in the soap-boiling connection, and though she would no doubt be
very fairly happy with Jack, the Macleod family was distinctly more
suitable. The question, therefore, soon resolved itself, not into
whether the outworks of the girl's placidity should be defended, but
how this could best be effected. How in short Jack could be prevented
from posing as a martyr; for Mrs. Woodward was sharp enough to see
that, at present at any rate, the danger lay entirely in her
daughter's remorse.
"It was very unkind of Jack I must say," she commented skilfully on
the story which Alice unfolded to her after a time; "but you mustn't
be hard on him, my dear. Men never have so much self-control as we
have, and no doubt the knowledge that you were right vexed him. They
get over these little rebuffs very quickly."
"It--it seemed to hurt him though--and I hate--all that sort of
thing," murmured the girl doubtfully, looking as if she were going to
cry again.
"And it hurts you apparently, though you know quite well that you only
did your duty."
"I suppose so," remarked Alice, still more doubtfully; "only I wish he
hadn't been so unreasonable."
"So do I; but in these cases the girl always has to have sense for
both. Besides Jack has a vile temper. But it is soon over. You will
see that he will come to dinner as usual--it is the opera night, and
he wouldn't miss that for anything--not even for you, my dear."
Alice smiled a watery smile, and said she did not think it meant so
little to him as all that; but Mrs. Woodward maintained her position,
having, in fact, some grounds for her belief, owing to the despatch of
a certain little note which she had sent off before coming in to
console Alice, and which ran thus:--
"Dear Jack,--Alice tells me you were very much put about to-day
regarding our visit to Scotland; why, I can scarcely understand. Dear
boy, if only for your own sake--since you can scarcely wish to quarrel
with her, or us--do try and keep that temper of yours a little more
under control. The poor girl came home crying, and I really cannot
allow you to go out with her again if you are so inconsiderate. You
ought to know quite well how sensitive she is, so for goodness' sake
don't let this stupid misunderstanding disturb us all.--Your
affectionate Aunt,
"Sophia Woodward."
P.S.--"We dine earlier to-day, as Alice wants to be in time for the
overture, 'Tannhauser.'"
A note which meant all or nothing according to the wishes of the
reader. In this case it meant all, for Jack, returning to his rooms
after a disastrous attempt to begin his future rôle in life by playing
whist with the old fogies at his club, was feeling that life, even as
a misogynist, was unendurable, when the sight of his aunt's
handwriting made his heart beat. The note was not in the least what he
had expected to receive, and made him somehow feel as if he had
grossly exaggerated the necessity for grief.
"Aunt Soph is on my side, anyhow," said the young man, with a certain
elation, "and I was a brute, I'm afraid."
The result being, that before Alice, who had been spending the
afternoon with Paul Macleod's sister, Lady George Temple, had returned
from her drive, Jack, with a big gardenia in his coat, was ushered
into the drawing-room, where his aunt, in satin and diamonds, was
skimming through the last few pages of another novel which had to be
returned to the library that evening.
"Good boy!" she said, smiling. "Now, I hope you won't spoil Alice's
pleasure to-night by even alluding to your rudeness."
Jack looked a little aghast. "But, Aunt Sophia, I must beg her
pardon."
"Then you had better do it at once," replied Mrs. Woodward, "and get
it over. For there she is at the door. You can run downstairs and meet
her, for she will have to go up to dress at once. She is late as it
is."
Begging your mistress's pardon on the way upstairs, before the eyes of
a butler and a footman, was not quite what Jack had pictured to
himself; but it was better than nothing, and Alice's unfeigned look of
relief at seeing him could not be mistaken.
Mrs. Woodward slept soundly that night, feeling that she had done a
good day's work, and steered the bark of her daughter's happiness out
of a great danger. And happiness to her philosophy meant much, since
virtue was so very much easier of attainment when life went smoothly.
This was partly the reason why she did not detail the past danger to
her husband after the manner of some wives, who love to chase sleep
from their good man's eyes by breaking in upon the delicious
drowsiness of the first ten minutes in bed by perfectly needless
revelations of past woe.
The tie, in fact, between these two whose night-capped heads reposed
side by side, was a curious one if absolutely commonplace. It
consisted of a vast amount of mutual respect for each other's position
as husband or wife, a solid foundation of placid affection, and no
confidence. For instance, Mrs. Woodward knew considerably more about
her son Sam Woodward's debts than his father did, to say nothing of
minor points in the matter of household management; but then at least
two-thirds of Mr. Woodward's life was absolutely unknown to the wife
of his bosom. He breakfasted and dined at home on week days, and on
Sundays he added lunch to the other meals; what is more, he never
deserted her for the club on the occasion of "At Homes." But of his
life between 10 A.M. and 7 P.M. she knew nothing, except that he
lunched at a bar in the City. So far as this went, he was to her
exactly what he was to the outside world; that is to say, Mr.
Woodward, the lucky financier, whose name meant money. Even the
success or failure of the companies which she saw advertised with his
name as director did not interest her, for she knew by experience that
money and to spare was always forthcoming. And to tell the truth, Mr.
Woodward was a singularly lucky man. When the smash came to the
company "For Preserving the North American Indian from Total
Extinction by Supplying him with a Sparkling Beverage, Exhilarating
but non-Alcoholic, to take the Place of the Deleterious Fire Water,"
he had happened to sell his last remaining share the day before; and
even when the scheme for supplying hard-boiled eggs to the settlers in
Africa failed, it did not affect the home supply at all. And yet Mr.
Woodward's character as a business man stood above suspicion, and the
worst that had ever been said of him was that he could sail a point or
two nearer to the wind with safety than most men.
So that night he also slept the sleep of the just, undisturbed by the
thoughts of Jack's temerity. Even if he had known of it, it is to be
feared that he would have set the question aside with the mental
verdict that it was clearly the business of the girl's mother to see
to such things. Poor mothers! who as they look at the bald head on the
pillow beside their own cannot but feel, even while they would not now
part with it for all the world, that life would have been less
disappointing if circumstances had been more kind.
As for Alice herself, she slept peacefully also, the doubt which poor
Jack's pain had raised in her gentle mind having been allayed by his
prompt submission. And Jack snored--positively snored; for he was
rather fatigued with his own excitement, being of the sort which takes
most things not so much keenly as heavily. To tell the truth, also,
his determination to marry his cousin was so fixed that the greater
part of his pain had been sheer inability to grasp the idea of denial;
so that he reverted gladly to the old position without asking
questions as a less tenacious man might have done.