One morning, as he gathered up his mail, Chiltern left lying on the
breakfast table a printed circular, an appeal from the trustees of
the Grenoble Hospital. As Honora read it she remembered that this
institution had been the favourite charity of his mother; and that Mrs.
Chiltern, at her death, had bequeathed an endowment which at the time
had been ample. But Grenoble having grown since then, the deficit for
this year was something under two thousand dollars, and in a lower
corner was a request that contributions be sent to Mrs. Israel Simpson.
With the circular in her hand, Honora went thoughtfully up the stairs
to her sitting-room. The month was February, the day overcast and muggy,
and she stood for a while apparently watching the holes made in the snow
by the steady drip from the cap of the garden wall. What she really saw
was the face of Mrs. Israel Simpson, a face that had haunted her these
many months. For Mrs. Simpson had gradually grown, in Honora's mind, to
typify the hardness of heart of Grenoble. With Grenoble obdurate, what
would become of the larger ambitions of Hugh Chiltern?
Mrs. Simpson was indeed a redoubtable lady, whose virtue shone with a
particular high brightness on the Sabbath. Her lamp was brimming with
oil against the judgment day, and she was as one divinely appointed to
be the chastener of the unrighteous. So, at least, Honora beheld her.
Her attire was rich but not gaudy, and had the air of proclaiming the
prosperity of Israel Simpson alone as its unimpeachable source: her nose
was long, her lip slightly marked by a masculine and masterful emblem,
and her eyes protruded in such a manner as to give the impression of
watchfulness on all sides.
It was this watchfulness that our heroine grew to regard as a salient
characteristic. It never slept--even during Mr. Stopford's sermons. She
was aware of it when she entered the church, and she was sure that
it escorted her as far as the carriage on her departure. It seemed to
oppress the congregation. And Honora had an idea that if it could have
been withdrawn, her cruel proscription would have ended. For at times
she thought that she read in the eyes of some of those who made way for
her, friendliness and even compassion.
It was but natural, perhaps, in the situation in which our heroine found
herself, that she should have lost her sense of proportion to the extent
of regarding this lady in the light of a remorseless dragon barring her
only path to peace. And those who might have helped her--if any there
were--feared the dragon as much as she. Mrs. Simpson undoubtedly would
not have relished this characterization, and she is not to have the
opportunity of presenting her side of the case. We are looking at it
from Honora's view, and Honora beheld chimeras. The woman changed, for
Honora, the very aspect of the house of God; it was she who appeared to
preside there, or rather to rule by terror. And Honora, as she glanced
at her during the lessons, often wondered if she realized the appalling
extent of her cruelty. Was this woman, who begged so audibly to be
delivered from pride, vainglory, and hypocrisy, in reality a Christian?
Honora hated her, and yet she prayed that God would soften her heart.
Was there no way in which she could be propitiated, appeased? For
the sake of the thing desired, and which it was given this woman to
withhold, she was willing to humble herself in the dust.
Honora laid the hospital circular on the desk beside her account book.
She had an ample allowance from Hugh; but lying in a New York bank was
what remained of the unexpected legacy she had received from her father,
and it was from this that she presently drew a cheque for five hundred
dollars,--a little sacrifice that warmed her blood as she wrote. Not for
the unfortunate in the hospital was she making it, but for him: and that
she could do this from the little store that was her very own gave her
a thrill of pride. She would never need it again. If he deserted her, it
mattered little what became of her. If he deserted her!
She sat gazing out of the window over the snow, and a new question
was in her heart. Was it as a husband--that he loved her? Did their
intercourse have that intangible quality of safety that belonged to
married life? And was it not as a mistress rather than a wife that, in
their isolation, she watched his moods so jealously? A mistress! Her
lips parted, and she repeated the word aloud, for self-torture is human.
Her mind dwelt upon their intercourse. There were the days they spent
together, and the evenings, working or reading. Ah, but had the time
ever been when, in the depths of her being, she had felt the real
security of a wife? When she had not always been dimly conscious of
a desire to please him, of a struggle to keep him interested and
contented? And there were the days when he rode alone, the nights when
he read or wrote alone, when her joy was turned to misery; there were
the alternating periods of passion and alienation. Alienation, perhaps,
was too strong a word. Nevertheless, at such times, her feeling was one
of desolation.
His heart, she knew, was bent upon success at Grenoble, and one of the
books which they had recently read together was a masterly treatise, by
an Englishman, on the life-work of an American statesman. The vast
width of the country, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, was stirred with
politics: a better era was coming, the pulse of the nation beating with
renewed life; a stronger generation was arising to take the Republic
into its own hands. A campaign was in progress in the State, and twice
her husband had gone some distance to hear the man who embodied the new
ideas, and had come back moody and restless, like a warrior condemned
to step aside. Suppose his hopes were blighted--what would happen? Would
the spirit of reckless adventure seize him again? Would the wilds call
him? or the city? She did not dare to think.
It was not until two mornings later that Hugh tossed her across the
breakfast table a pink envelope with a wide flap and rough edges. Its
sender had taken advantage of the law that permits one-cent stamps for
local use.
“Who's your friend, Honora?” he asked.
She tried to look calmly at the envelope that contained her fate.
“It's probably a dressmaker's advertisement,” she answered, and went on
with the pretence of eating her breakfast.
“Or an invitation to dine with Mrs. Simpson,” he suggested, laughingly,
as he rose. “It's just the stationery she would choose.”
Honora dropped her spoon in her egg-cup. It instantly became evident,
however, that his remark was casual and not serious, for he gathered
up his mail and departed. Her hand trembled a little as she opened the
letter, and for a moment the large gold monogram of its sender danced
before her eyes.
“Dear Madam, Permit me to thank you in the name of the Trustees of
the Grenoble Hospital for your generous contribution, and believe
me, Sincerely yours,
“MARIA W. SIMPSON.”
The sheet fluttered to the floor.
When Sunday came, for the first time her courage failed her. She had
heard the wind complaining in the night, and the day dawned wild and
wet. She got so far as to put on a hat and veil and waterproof coat;
Starling had opened the doors, and through the frame of the doorway, on
the wet steps, she saw the footman in his long mackintosh, his umbrella
raised to escort her to the carriage. Then she halted, irresolute. The
impassive old butler stood on the sill, a silent witness, she knew, to
the struggle going on within her. It seemed ridiculous indeed to play
out the comedy with him, who could have recited the lines. And yet she
turned to him.
“Starling, you may send the coachman back to the stable.”
“Very good, madam.”
As she climbed the stairs she saw him gravely closing the doors. She
paused on the landing, her sense of relief overborne by a greater sense
of defeat. There was still time! She heard the wheels of the carriage
on the circle--yet she listened to them die away. Starling softly caught
the latch, and glanced up. For an instant their looks crossed, and she
hurried on with palpitating breast, reached her boudoir, and closed
the door. The walls seemed to frown on her, and she remembered that the
sitting-room in St. Louis had worn that same look when, as a child,
she had feigned illness in order to miss a day at school. With a leaden
heart she gazed out on the waste of melting snow, and then tried in
vain to read a novel that a review had declared amusing. But a question
always came between her and the pages: was this the turning point of
that silent but terrible struggle, when she must acknowledge to herself
that the world had been too strong for her? After a while her loneliness
became unbearable. Chiltern was in the library.
“Home from church?” he inquired.
“I didn't go, Hugh.”
He looked up in surprise.
“Why, I thought I saw you start,” he said.
“It's such a dreary day, Hugh.”
“But that has never prevented you before.”
“Don't you think I'm entitled to one holiday?” she asked.
But it was by a supreme effort she kept back the tears. He looked at her
attentively, and got up suddenly and put his hands upon her shoulders.
She could not meet his eyes, and trembled under his touch.
“Honora,” he said, “why don't you tell me the truth?”
“What do you mean, Hugh?”
“I have been wondering how long you'd stand it. I mean that these women,
who call themselves Christians, have been brutal to you. They haven't
so much as spoken to you in church, and not one of them has been to this
house to call. Isn't that so?”
“Don't let us judge them yet, Hugh,” she begged, a little wildly,
feeling again the gathering of another destroying storm in him that
might now sweep the last vestige of hope away. And she seized the
arguments as they came. “Some of them may be prejudiced, I know. But
others--others I am sure are kind, and they have had no reason to
believe I should like to know them--to work among them. I--I could not
go to see them first, I am glad to wait patiently until some accident
brings me near them. And remember, Hugh, the atmosphere in which we both
lived before we came here--an atmosphere they regard as frivolous
and pleasure-loving. People who are accustomed to it are not usually
supposed to care to make friends in a village, or to bother their heads
about the improvement of a community. Society is not what it was in
your mother's day, who knew these people or their mothers, and took an
interest in what they were doing. Perhaps they think me--haughty.” She
tried to smile. “I have never had an opportunity to show them that I am
not.”
She paused, breathless, and saw that he was unconvinced.
“Do you believe that, Honora?” he demanded.
“I--I want to believe it. And I am sure, that if it is not true now, it
will become so, if we only wait.”
He shook his head.
“Never,” he said, and dropped his hands and walked over to the fire. She
stood where he had left her.
“I understand,” she heard him say, “I understand that you sent Mrs.
Simpson five hundred dollars for the hospital. Simpson told me so
yesterday, at the bank.”
“I had a little money of my own--from my father and I was glad to do it,
Hugh. That was your mother's charity.”
Her self-control was taxed to the utmost by the fact that he was moved.
She could not see his face, but his voice betrayed it.
“And Mrs. Simpson?” he asked, after a moment.
“Mrs. Simpson?”
“She thanked you?”
“She acknowledged the cheque, as president. I was not giving it to her,
but to the hospital.”
“Let me see the letter.”
“I--I have destroyed it.”
He brought his hands together forcibly, and swung about and faced her.
“Damn them!” he cried, “from this day I forbid you to have anything to
do with them, do you hear. I forbid you! They're a set of confounded,
self-righteous hypocrites. Give them time! In all conscience they have
had time enough, and opportunity enough to know what our intentions
are. How long do they expect us to fawn at their feet for a word of
recognition? What have we done that we should be outlawed in this way
by the very people who may thank my family for their prosperity? Where
would Israel Simpson be to-day if my father had not set him up in
business? Without knowing anything of our lives they pretend to sit in
judgment on us. Why? Because you have been divorced, and I married you.
I'll make them pay for this!”
“No!” she begged, taking a step towards him. “You don't know what you're
saying, Hugh. I implore you not to do anything. Wait a little while!
Oh, it is worth trying!” So far the effort carried her, and no farther.
Perhaps, at sight of the relentlessness in his eyes, hope left her, and
she sank down on a chair and buried her face in her hands, her voice
broken by sobs. “It is my fault, and I am justly punished. I have no
right to you--I was wicked, I was selfish to marry you. I have ruined
your life.”
He went to her, and lifted her up, but she was like a child whom
passionate weeping has carried beyond the reach of words. He could say
nothing to console her, plead as he might, assume the blame, and swear
eternal fealty. One fearful, supreme fact possessed her, the wreck of
Chiltern breaking against the rocks, driven there by her....
That she eventually grew calm again deserves to be set down as a tribute
to the organism of the human body.
That she was able to breathe, to move, to talk, to go through the
pretence of eating, was to her in the nature of a mild surprise. Life
went on, but it seemed to Honora in the hours following this scene that
it was life only. Of the ability to feel she was utterly bereft. Her
calmness must have been appalling: her own indifference to what might
happen now,--if she could have realized it,--even more so. And in
the afternoon, wandering about the house, she found herself in the
conservatory. It had been built on against the library, and sometimes,
on stormy afternoons, she had tea there with Hugh in the red-cushioned
chairs beside the trickling fountain, the flowers giving them an
illusion of summer.
Under ordinary circumstances the sound of wheels on the gravel would
have aroused her, for Hugh scarcely ever drove. And it was not until
she glanced through the open doors into the library that she knew that
a visitor had come to Highlawns. He stood beside the rack for the
magazines and reviews, somewhat nervously fingering a heavy watch charm,
his large silk hat bottom upward on the chair behind him. It was Mr.
Israel Simpson. She could see him plainly, and she was by no means
hidden from him by the leaves, and yet she did not move. He had come to
see Hugh, she understood; and she was probably going to stay where
she was and listen. It seemed of no use repeating to herself that
this conversation would be of vital importance; for the mechanism that
formerly had recorded these alarms and spread them, refused to work. She
saw Chiltern enter, and she read on his face that he meant to destroy.
It was no news to her. She had known it for a long, long time--in fact,
ever since she had came to Grenoble. Her curiosity, strangely enough--or
so it seemed afterwards--was centred on Mr. Simpson, as though he were
an actor she had been very curious to see.
It was this man, and not her husband, whom she perceived from the first
was master of the situation. His geniality was that of the commander
of an overwhelming besieging force who could afford to be generous. She
seemed to discern the cloudy ranks of the legions behind him, and they
encircled the world. He was aware of these legions, and their presence
completely annihilated the ancient habit of subserviency with which
in former years he had been wont to enter this room and listen to the
instructions of that formidable old lion, the General: so much was
plain from the orchestra. He went forward with a cheerful, if ponderous
bonhomie.
“Ah, Hugh,” said he, “I got your message just in time. I was on the
point of going over to see old Murdock. Seriously ill--you know--last
time, I'm afraid,” and Mr. Simpson shook his head. He held out his hand.
Hugh did not appear to notice it.
“Sit down, Mr. Simpson,” he said.
Mr. Simpson sat down. Chiltern took a stand before him.
“You asked me the other day whether I would take a certain amount of the
stock and bonds of the Grenoble Light and Power Company, in which
you are interested, and which is, I believe, to supply the town with
electric light, the present source being inadequate.”
“So I did,” replied Mr. Simpson, urbanely, “and I believe the investment
to be a good one. There is no better power in this part of the country
than Psalter's Falls.”
“I wished to inform you that I do not intend to go into the Light and
Power Company,” said Chiltern.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Mr. Simpson declared. “In my opinion, if you
searched the state for a more profitable or safer thing, you could not
find it.”
“I have no doubt the investment is all that could be desired, Mr.
Simpson. I merely wished you to know, as soon as possible, that I did
not intend to put my money into it. There are one or two other little
matters which you have mentioned during the week. You pointed out that
it would be an advantage to Grenoble to revive the county fair, and you
asked me to subscribe five thousand dollars to the Fair Association.”
This time Mr. Simpson remained silent.
“I have come to the conclusion, to-day, not to subscribe a cent. I also
intend to notify the church treasurer that I will not any longer rent a
pew, or take any further interest in the affairs of St. John's church.
My wife was kind enough, I believe, to send five hundred dollars to the
Grenoble hospital. That will be the last subscription from any member of
my family. I will resign as a director of the Grenoble Bank to-morrow,
and my stock will be put on the market. And finally I wished to tell
you that henceforth I do not mean to aid in any way any enterprise in
Grenoble.”
During this announcement, which had been made with an ominous calmness,
Mr. Simpson had gazed steadily at the brass andirons. He cleared his
throat.
“My dear Hugh,” said he, “what you have said pains me
excessively-excessively. I--ahem--fail to grasp it. As an old friend
of your family--of your father--I take the liberty of begging you to
reconsider your words.”
Chiltern's eyes blazed.
“Since you have mentioned my father, Mr. Simpson,” he exclaimed, “I may
remind you that his son might reasonably have expected at your hands a
different treatment than that you have accorded him. You have asked me
to reconsider my decision, but I notice that you have failed to inquire
into my reasons for making it. I came back here to Grenoble with every
intention of devoting the best efforts of my life in aiding to build up
the community, as my father had done. It was natural, perhaps, that
I should expect a little tolerance, a little friendliness, a little
recognition in return. My wife was prepared to help me. We did not
ask much. But you have treated us like outcasts. Neither you nor Mrs.
Simpson, from whom in all conscience I looked for consideration and
friendship, have as much as spoken to Mrs. Chiltern in church. You have
made it clear that, while you are willing to accept our contributions,
you cared to have nothing to do with us whatever. If I have overstated
the case, please correct me.”
Mr. Simpson rose protestingly.
“My dear Hugh,” he said. “This is very painful. I beg that you will
spare me.”
“My name is Chiltern,” answered Hugh, shortly. “Will you kindly explain,
if you can, why the town of Grenoble has ignored us?”
Israel Simpson hesitated a moment. He seemed older when he looked at
Chiltern again, and in his face commiseration and indignation were oddly
intermingled. His hand sought his watch chain.
“Yes, I will tell you,” he replied slowly, “although in all my life
no crueller duty has fallen on me. It is because we in Grenoble are
old-fashioned in our views of morality, and I thank God we are so. It is
because you have married a divorced woman under circumstances that have
shocked us. The Church to which I belong, and whose teachings I respect,
does not recognize such a marriage. And you have, in my opinion,
committed an offence against society. To recognize you by social
intercourse would be to condone that offence, to open the door to
practices that would lead, in a short time, to the decay of our people.”
Israel Simpson turned, and pointed a shaking forefinger at the portrait
of General Augus Chiltern.
“And I affirm here, fearlessly before you, that he, your father, would
have been the last to recognize such a marriage.”
Chiltern took a step forward, and his fingers tightened.
“You will oblige me by leaving my father's name out of this discussion,”
he said.
But Israel Simpson did not recoil.
“If we learn anything by example in this world, Mr. Chiltern,” he
continued, “and it is my notion that we do, I am indebted to your father
for more than my start in life. Through many years of intercourse
with him, and contemplation of his character, I have gained more than
riches.--You have forced me to say this thing. I am sorry if I have
pained you. But I should not be true to the principles to which he
himself was consistent in life, and which he taught by example so many
others, if I ventured to hope that social recognition in Grenoble would
be accorded you, or to aid in any way such recognition. As long as I
live I will oppose it. There are, apparently, larger places in the world
and less humble people who will be glad to receive you. I can only
hope, as an old friend and well-wisher of your family, that you may find
happiness.”
Israel Simpson fumbled for his hat, picked it up, and left the room. For
a moment Chiltern stood like a man turned to stone, and then he pressed
the button on the wall behind him.
Volume 8.