Of the beauty of friendship much has been said and written, but little
of its danger. In a friendship between the sexes there is always
danger; for a friendship between a man and a woman is based on an
entirely different sentiment from any other relation. The danger may
not be apparent; in many cases it is latent; but the spark which will
ignite it is present in the attribute of sex, and the unforeseen
accident of circumstance may fire it at any moment. Men realise this
more readily than women, perhaps because they are less given to subduing
these qualities. Dare's resolve to act on Mrs Carruthers' advice and
flee the danger was the result of his recognition of it. His sudden
departure was an acknowledgment of his own weakness, and at the same
time a proof of strength of purpose. To act contrary to one's
inclination for the sake of principle entails sacrifice.
The sacrifice did not affect him solely. This abrupt cessation of their
pleasant intercourse made a fresh break in Pamela's life. For some
weeks after he had gone she missed his society greatly; his frequent,
unexpected visits had added a pleasurable excitement to her days; she
had grown used to his dropping in at all hours, had grown to look for
him. Until he was gone she had not realised how much she had enjoyed
these visits; now that they had ceased she felt unaccountably lonely.
She sought distraction from the dulness of her home by going out a good
deal, and took up again with feverish energy the old round of social
pleasures which the tragic discovery of the deception of her marriage
had interrupted. She had had little heart for such things of late, and
had made the baby's advent an excuse for retirement.
She started entertaining again in the lavish manner of happier days, and
so filled in the blank which Dare's departure had created. She had not
suspected until he left how much she had grown to depend on him. It
distressed her not a little to discover that she missed him so greatly;
she felt ashamed to acknowledge it even to herself.
Arnott was on the whole rather pleased to observe what he believed to be
Pamela's reawakened interest in life. He had resented her persistent
avoidance of all save a favoured few of her former friends. Her
attitude had struck him as a tacit reproach to himself, and this had
annoyed him. Her resumption of neglected duties won him over to greater
amiability, and kept him more at home. Since the birth of the boy, the
care of whom had been a tie upon Pamela, he had fallen into the habit of
motoring alone into Cape Town and spending much of his time at his club.
The parental role was not at all in his line.
He could not understand why Pamela refused to engage a capable European
nurse, and hand the care of the children over to her. Nevertheless,
when Pamela suggested having a governess for them, he opposed the idea
vigorously. A nurse was reasonable, he argued; but a governess was not
a servant, and would be continually in the way. He disliked the idea of
admitting a stranger into the household.
Pamela allowed the matter to drop for a time, but she did not give it up
entirely. She discussed it with Mrs Carruthers, and Mrs Carruthers
made inquiries for her, and ascertained that Blanche Maitland would be
quite willing to undertake the position. After the lapse of a few
months Pamela broached the project with greater determination. In the
interval she invited Blanche to the house on several occasions with a
view to accustoming Arnott to her. It was following one of these
occasions that she opened the subject again.
"That girl seems to be here fairly often," Arnott remarked. "What is
the attraction?"
"I like her," said Pamela. "She is quiet, and nice."
"She's quiet enough," he admitted.
"I want you to agree to my engaging her as nursery governess," she said.
"Pamela is growing big enough to begin easy lessons, and both the
children need a white woman's care. They must have an educated person
with them. It is impossible for me to be with them all day."
"I don't see why a good European nurse," he began.
But she interrupted him firmly.
"There are very few good European nurses to be had out here," she
declared, and urged her reasons more strongly.
Arnott was not easily won over. He resented the idea of a stranger in
the household, whom he could not ignore as he might a nurse, to whom it
would be necessary, he complained, to be civil.
"I don't see why a nurse shouldn't be good enough for our kids as well
as for other people's," he grumbled. "A governess is always in the
way."
"I will take very good care she doesn't get in your way," Pamela
returned. "And I don't fancy you will find it difficult to be civil to
Blanche."
"You can't treat a girl like that as if she were a nursemaid," he
objected.
"Of course not. One need not go to extremes either way."
He looked at her with some displeasure, made an impatient sound between
his teeth, muttered: "Damn the kids!" and finally gave in.
"You'll never leave off pestering until you get what you want," he said.
"You can try the experiment, but as soon as it becomes a nuisance you
will have to make other arrangements."
"All right," Pamela agreed cheerfully, satisfied at having gained her
point, and feeling very little anxiety as to the result of her venture.
"You'll see; it will work admirably. And I shall have far more leisure
to devote to your exacting self."
He suddenly smiled.
"I'm glad you recognise that you have neglected me of late," he
observed. "I've been of no greater account in this household than a
piece of waste paper since the boy came."
Pamela flushed painfully. It was the first time Arnott had made any
direct allusion to the change that was gradually alienating their
sympathies. The knowledge that he too recognised it added to the
distress of her own unwilling acceptance of the inevitable estrangement.
"I too have felt that we were--were growing a little apart," she
faltered. "You don't seem to need me quite so much as you did."
"What's the use of needing you when I can't have you?" he grumbled.
"The kids always come first with you."
"You don't mean that," she said quickly.
Arnott laughed, and put a careless arm about her shoulders.
"I'm only teasing, Pam," he said. "You don't stand chaff like you used
to. You were rare sport at one time. What's changing you?"
"Life," she answered quietly.
"Oh, rot!" he ejaculated irritably. "That's talking heroics. Your life
runs on fairly even lines. Don't be melodramatic."
He kissed her lightly, and released her. The next day he brought her a
present out from town. In this manner he believed he smoothed away
unpleasantness.
Pamela settled the matter of the governess by engaging her immediately,
thus giving Arnott no opportunity for reconsidering his reluctant
acquiescence. Within the month Blanche Maitland was established in the
house, and very quickly made herself indispensable to Pamela. She was
not only useful with the children; she took over many domestic duties
which she contrived to fit in without interfering with her legitimate
occupation. Pamela stood out for a time against this encroachment on
her province. She was not altogether satisfied to have her home run by
a stranger. But Blanche seemed so anxious to prove helpful, and was so
excellent with the children, that little by little she gave way, until
practically the entire control passed into Miss Maitland's capable
hands. After a while Pamela decided that it was rather agreeable to
have the housekeeping worries lifted from her shoulders. She increased
Miss Maitland's salary in recognition of her worth, and became a mere
cipher in the management of her home.
The arrangement pleased Arnott. Miss Maitland was more efficient as a
housekeeper than Pamela had ever been; and her release from these ties
enabled his wife to devote more of her time and attention upon himself.
She too was happier in the new arrangement. Arnott showed a renewed
pleasure in her society. Being a man who did not make friends, his
wife's companionship was to a great extent necessary to him; now that he
could enjoy it freely whenever he desired he fell into the habit of
wanting her and became somewhat exacting in his demands upon her
leisure.
But in this selfish dependency on her company there remained little of
the eager gladness in each other, the perfect understanding of happier
days. Pamela was sensible of the difference, though she tried to ignore
it. It was, she felt largely her own fault. In the difficult time
following her enlightenment she had lost her influence over Arnott; had
allowed the power she had possessed to slip away from her in her timid
shrinking from ugly realities, and her newly acquired distrust of
himself. She had strained his love and patience often in those days,
and she was reaping the result now.
These things troubled her no longer to the extent they once had done.
She was becoming reconciled to the changes in her life. Although she
strove to fight against an increasing indifference in her own feeling
towards him, she knew that her love was not as perfect as it had been:
it had gone down under the shock, and come out of the wreckage of her
happiness a crippled thing.
When Pamela allowed her mind to dwell on these matters she became
frightened. It was terrifying to contemplate what might result if they
ceased finally to care for one another. Life together in such
circumstances would become unendurable. Plenty of people lived together
who were mutually antipathetic, but not in the dishonoured relations of
her union with Arnott. A real love alone offered any extenuation--if
extenuation could be urged--in defence of their sin against society.
She dared not admit a doubt of her loyal devotion, dared not cease to
struggle to retain Herbert's affection. Her life became an endless
fight to keep alive the shrunken image of the old love. A love which
needs constant tending and guarding and encouraging is a difficult plant
to keep flourishing: when one is compelled to resort to artificial
stimulus it is a proof that the nature has gone out of it.
Pamela had at one time regarded the Carruthers' married life as a rather
prosy affair; now she was inclined to envy the humdrum content of this
eminently well-mated couple. If there was not much actual romance in
Connie Carruthers' life, there was solid satisfaction and entire trust.
She and Dick Carruthers had been comrades rather than lovers, and they
remained comrades still.
"Don't you think," Pamela observed to her one day, when she came in to
see her godson, and take tea, as she often did, with the children, "that
babies make a big difference? ... They seem to come between the
parents... They make a break. I suppose it's because they claim so
much of one's time and attention."
"Yours don't get it, whatever they may claim," Mrs Carruthers answered.
"And children are the only decent excuse for marriage. I wish I had a
dozen."
She looked at Pamela curiously, not quite sure what to make of her
speech, and not liking it particularly. The children had just been
taken away by Miss Maitland. Pamela had let them go reluctantly.
Whatever her opinion as to the desirability of children, she was
unquestionably devoted to her own.
"They make a difference," Pamela insisted.
"Of course they do. They interfere with one's comfort. It's good
discipline for selfish people. Why, you silly person, you would be
miserable without your babies."
Pamela smiled drearily.
"I suppose I should--now. But I sometimes wish they hadn't come...
especially the boy," she added wistfully.
Mrs Carruthers felt slightly uncomfortable. She had an instinctive
dread of intimate confidences; and the tone of Pamela's plaint occurred
to her as significant of a desire to unburden herself. If babies in the
house upset Arnott's temper, she did not wish to hear about it. Arnott
was a man whom she cordially disliked. It was not in the least
surprising to her that Pamela was finding life with him less of an idyll
than she had once believed it; the mystery was that she had not suffered
disillusion earlier; the man was so absolutely selfish.
"It isn't any use wishing," she replied with a downright commonsense
that damped Pamela's disposition to be confidential. "And Blanche
relieves you of all trouble. You were lucky to secure that girl. I
knew she was a treasure. She is the kind of girl who deserves to have a
home of her own to run. But men usually marry the helpless, ornamental
women; they are connoisseurs merely in exteriors. Not that there is
anything amiss with Blanche's exterior. Dickie admires her
tremendously."
"She is very useful," Pamela said. "The children like her."
"Don't you?"
"Oh! yes, of course." Pamela's tone was a little uncertain; it
qualified her words, Mrs Carruthers thought. "One can't have
everything," she went on, in the manner of one weighing advantages
against disadvantages, and finding the balance fairly even. "She is an
enormous help to me--indeed, I am growing to depend too much on her.
But I don't see enough of the children since she came. When I am home
and able to have them, she has some reason which interferes. It is
always a sound reason. But there is so much discipline in the nursery
now; it robs me of a good deal of enjoyment. The children don't belong
to me any more."
"Well," said Mrs Carruthers, "you can soon alter that."
"It isn't so simple as it sounds," Pamela replied. "I tried at first;
but one has to give way. It is all for the benefit of the children.
It's no good employing any one like that, and interfering with her
authority. She has to be with them always, and I only see them at odd
moments."
She broke off with a laugh.
"It's a shame to inflict all this grumbling on you; but I needed an
outlet. It wouldn't do to grumble to Herbert because he was so greatly
against having a governess. He would say it was what he foresaw, and
advise me to get rid of her. I shouldn't like to do that. I always
feel easy in my mind about them when I leave them now. She is entirely
trustworthy."
"I think I should put my foot down upon that point," Mrs Carruthers
advised. "That sort of thing can become annoying. Some people are
greedy for authority, and if you give in to them they become arbitrary.
If you want the children any hour of the day, have them, whether it is
the time for their rest or any other legitimate exercise."
"And spoil their tempers," laughed Pamela.
"Rubbish!" scoffed Mrs Carruthers. "Temper in the human animal
develops naturally. One has to spank it out of them. All children are
not brought up by rule, you know; it isn't possible in some households.
We were dragged up; but I must add that our tempers on the whole did not
suffer as a result. Keep their little bodies nourished, and their minds
will develop of themselves. The one thing, I suppose, every mother
strives to do is to develop her baby on the lines she considers the most
admirable; and the baby invariably develops on its own lines, because it
is an individual. It is difficult to regard the infant as an
individual. We imagine we form its character; but nature forms its
character in the embryo stage; we merely advance its development by the
aid of our own experience. See more of your children, Pamela, my dear;
nothing will ever make up to you, nor to them, the enjoyment you forego
in your present separation."
She rose abruptly, and approached Pamela's side. Stooping, she took the
wistful face between her hands and kissed it.
"I am a stony-hearted, philosophical lunatic," she said. "Go and put on
your hat, you blessed infant, and come out for a walk with me."