THE DENYERS IN ENGLAND
"There!" said Mrs. Denyer, laying money on the table. "There are your
wages, up to the end of April--notwithstanding your impertinence to me
this morning, you see. Once more I forgive you. And new get on with
your work, and let us have no more unpleasantness."
It was in the back parlour of a small house at Hampstead, a room
scantily furnished and not remarkably clean. Mrs. Denyer sat at the
table, some loose papers before her. She was in mourning, but still
fresh of complexion, and a trifle stouter than when she lived at
Naples, two years and a half ago. Her words were addressed to a
domestic (most plainly, of all work), who without ceremony gathered the
coins up in both her hands, counted them, and then said with decision:
"Now I'm goin', mum."
"Going? Indeed you are not, my girl! You don't leave this house without
the due notice."
"Notice or no notice, I'm a-goin'," said the other, firmly. "I never
thought to a' got even this much, an' now I've got it, I'm a-goin'.
It's wore me out, has this 'ouse; what with--"
The conflict lasted for a good quarter of an hour, but the domestic was
to be shaken neither with threats nor prayers. Resolutely did she
ascend to her bedroom, promptly did she pack her box. Almost before
Mrs. Denyer could realize the disaster that had befallen, her house was
servantless.
She again sat in the back parlour, gazing blankly at the table, when
there came the sound of the house-door opening, followed by a light
tread in the passage.
"Barbara!" called Mrs. Denyer.
Barbara presented herself. She also wore mourning, genteel but
inexpensive. Her prettiness endured, but she was pale, and had a
chronic look of discontent.
"Well, now, what do you think has happened? Shut the door. I paid
Charlotte the wages, and the very first thing she did was to pack and
go!"
"And you mean to say you let her? Why, you must be crazy!"
"Don't speak to me in that way!" cried her mother, hotly. "How could I
prevent her, when she was determined? I did my utmost, but nothing
could induce her to stay. Was ever anything so distracting? The very
day after letting our rooms! How are we to manage?"
"I shall have nothing to do with it. The girl wouldn't have gone if I'd
been here. You must manage how you can."
"It's no use talking like that, Barbara. You're bound to wait upon Mrs.
Travis until we get another girl."
"I?" exclaimed her daughter. "Wait on her yourself! I certainly shall
do nothing of the kind."
"You're a bad, cruel, undutiful girl!" cried Mrs. Denyer, her face on
fire. "Nether of your sisters ever treated me as you do. You're the
only one of the family that has never given the least help, and you're
the only one that day by day insults me and behaves with heartless
selfishness! I'm to wait on the lodger myself, am I? Very well! I will
do so, and see if anything in the world will shame you. She shall know
_why_ I wait on her, be sure of that!"
Barbara swept out of the room, and ascended the stairs to the second
floor. Here again she heard her name called, in a soft voice and
interrogatively in reply, she entered a small bedroom, saying
impatiently:
"What is it, Mad?"
It was seen at the first glance that this had long been a sick-chamber.
The arrangement of the furniture, the medicine-bottles, the appliances
for the use of one who cannot rise from bed, all told their story. The
air had a peculiar scent; an unnatural stillness seemed to pervade it.
Against the raised white pillow showed a face hardly less white.
"Isn't it provoking, Barbara?" said the invalid, without moving in the
least. "Whatever shall you do?"
"As best we can, I suppose. I've to turn cook and housemaid and
parlour-maid, now. Scullery-maid too. I suppose I shall clean the steps
to-morrow morning."
"Oh, but you must go to the registry-office the very first thing. Don't
upset yourself about it. If you can just manage to get that lady's
dinner."
"It's all very well for you to talk! How would _you_ like to _wait_ on
people, like a girl in a restaurant?"
"Ah, if only I could!" replied Madeline, with a little laugh that was
heart-breaking. "If only I could!"
In a month it would be two years since Madeline stood and walked like
other people; live as long as she might, she would never rise from her
bed. It came about in this way. Whilst the Denyers were living in the
second-class hotel at Southampton, and when Mr. Denyer had been gone to
Vera Cruz some five months, a little ramble was taken one day in a part
of the New Forest. Madeline was in particularly good spirits; she had
succeeded in getting an engagement to teach some children, and her work
was to begin the next day. In a frolic she set herself to jump over a
fallen tree; her feet slipped on the dry grass beyond, and she fell
with her back upon the trunk.
This was pleasant news to send to her father! With him things were
going as well as he had anticipated, and before long he was able to
make substantial remittances, but his letters were profoundly sad. In a
year's time, the family quitted Southampton and took the house at
Hampstead; with much expense and difficulty Madeline was removed. Mrs.
Denyer and Barbara were weary of provincial life, and considered
nothing in their resolve to be within reach of London amusements.
Zillah was living as governess with a family in Yorkshire.
They had been settled at Hampstead three weeks, when information
reached them that Mr. Denyer was dead of yellow fever.
On the day when this news came, the house received no less important a
visitor than Mr. Musselwhite. Long ago, Mrs. Denyer had written to him
from Southampton, addressing her letter to the club in London of which
he had spoken; she had received a prompt reply, dated from rooms in
London, and thenceforth the correspondence was established. But Mr.
Musselwhite never spoke of coming to Southampton; his letters ended
with "Sincere regards to Miss Denyer and the other young ladies," but
they contained nothing that was more to the point. He wrote about the
weather chiefly. Arrived in London, Mrs. Denyer at once sent an
invitation, and to her annoyance this remained unanswered. To-day the
explanation was forthcoming; Mr. Musselwhite had been on a journey, and
by some mistake the letter had only come into his hands when he
returned. He was most gentlemanly in his expressions of condolement
with the family in their distress; he sat with them, moreover, much
longer than was permissible under the circumstances by the code of
society. And on going, he begged to be allowed to see them
frequently--that was all.
Barbara could not control herself for irritation; Mrs. Denyer was
indignant. Yet, after all, was it to be expected that the visitor
should say or do more on such an occasion as this? In any case, he knew
what their position was; all had been put before him, as though he were
a member of the family. If they succeeded in obtaining whatever Mr.
Denyer had died possessed of, it would certainly be nothing more than a
provision for the present. When they spoke of taking a lodger for their
first floor, Mr. Musselwhite agreed that this was a good thought,
whilst shaking his gentlemanly head over the necessity.
He came again and again, always sadly sympathetic. He would sit in the
drawing-room for an hour, pulling his whiskers and moustaches
nervously, often glancing at Barbara, making the kindest inquiries
concerning Madeline, for whom he actually brought flowers. On one of
these occasions, he told them that his brother the baronet was very
ill, down at the "place in Lincolnshire." And after mentioning this, he
fell into abstraction.
As for Madeline, she still received letters from Clifford Marsh. On
first hearing of the accident, Clifford at once came to Southampton;
his distress was extreme. But it was useless for him to remain, and
business demanded his return to Leeds. Neither he nor Madeline was yet
aware of the gravity of what had happened; they talked of recovery.
Before long Madeline knew how her situation was generally regarded, but
she could not abandon hope; she was able to write, and not a word in
her letters betrayed a doubt of the possibility that she might yet be
well again. Clifford wrote very frequently for the first year, with a
great deal of genuine tenderness, with compassion and encouragement.
Never mind how long her illness lasted, let her be assured of his
fidelity; no one but Madeline should ever be his wife. A considerable
part of his letters was always occupied with lamentation over the
cursed fate that bound him to the Philistines, though he took care to
repeat that this was the result of his own choice, and that he blamed
no one--unless it were his gross-minded step-father, who had driven him
to such an alternative. These bewailings grew less vehement as his
letters became shorter and arrived at longer intervals; there began to
be a sameness in the tone, even in the words. When his yearly holiday
came round, he promised to visit Southampton, but after all never did
so. What was the use? he wrote. It only meant keener misery to both.
Instead of coming south, he had gone into Scotland.
And Madeline no longer expressed a wish to see him. Her own letters
grew shorter and calmer, containing at length very little about
herself, but for the most part news of family affairs. Every now and
then Clifford seemed to rouse himself to the effort of repeating his
protestations, of affirming his deathless faith; but as a rule he wrote
about trifles, sometimes even of newspaper matters. So did the second
year of Madeline's martyrdom come to its close.
Quarrelling incessantly, Mrs. Denyer and Barbara prepared the lodger's
dinner between them. This Mrs. Travis was not exacting; she had
stipulated only for a cutlet, or something of the kind, with two
vegetables, and a milk pudding. Whatever was proposed seemed to suit
her. The Denyers knew nothing about her, except that she was able to
refer them to a lady who had a house in Mayfair; her husband, she said,
was abroad. She had brought a great deal of luggage, including books to
the number of fifty or so.
When the moment for decision came, Barbara snatched up the folded white
table-cloth, threw it with knives, forks, and plates upon a tray, and
ascended to the lodger's sitting-room. Her cheeks were hot; her eyes
flashed. She had donned the most elegant attire in her possession, had
made her hair magnificent. Her knock at the door was meant to be a
declaration of independence; it sounded peremptory.
Mrs. Travis was in an easy-chair, reading. She looked up absently; then
smiled.
"Good evening, Miss Denyer. How close it has been again!"
"Very. I must ask you to excuse me, Mrs. Travis, if I do these things
rather awkwardly. At a moment's notice, we have lost the servant whose
duty it was."
"Oh, I am only sorry that you should have the trouble. Let us lay the
table together. I've done it often enough for myself. No, that's the
wrong side of the cloth. I'll put these things in order, whilst you go
for the rest."
Barbara looked at Mrs. Travis with secret disdain. The girl's nature
was plebeian; a little arrogance would have constrained her to respect,
however she might have seemed to resent it. This good-natured
indifference made her feel that her preparations were thrown away. She
would have preferred to see herself as a martyr.
When dinner was over and the table being cleared, Mrs. Travis spoke of
Madeline.
"Does she sleep well at night?"
"Never till very late," replied Barbara.
"Does she like to be read to?"
"Oh yes--reading of certain kinds. I often read Italian poetry to her."
Mrs. Travis had not now to learn for the first time of the family's
superior attainments; it had been Mrs. Denyer's care to impress upon
her that they were no ordinary letters of lodgings. Indeed, said Mrs.
Denyer, they were rather _depaysees_' here in England; they had so long
been accustomed to the larger intellectual atmosphere of Continental
centres. "The poor girls pine for Italy; they have always adored Italy.
My eldest daughter is far more Italian than English."
"Well, I don't read Italian," said Mrs. Travis to Barbara, "but if
English would do, I should really like to sit with her for an hour
sometimes. I never sleep myself if I go to bed before midnight. Do you
think she would care for my company?"
"I am sure she would be grateful to you," answered Barbara, who felt
that she might now exhibit a little politeness.
"Then please ask her if I may come to-night."
This request was readily granted, and at about half-past nine Mrs.
Travis went into the sick-chamber, taking in her hand a volume of
Browning. Madeline had not yet seen the lodger; she returned her
greeting in a murmur, and examined her with the steady eyes of one whom
great suffering has delivered from all petty embarrassments. Her face
was not so calm as when Barbara came to speak to her in the afternoon;
lines of pain showed themselves on her forehead, and her thin lips were
compressed.
"It's very good of you to come," she said, when Mrs. Travis had taken a
seat by the bed. "But please don't read anything to-night. I don't feel
that I could take any interest. It is so sometimes."
"Naturally enough. But do you feel able to talk?"
"Yes; I had rather talk. Can you tell me something quite new and
different from what I'm accustomed to hear? Do you know any country
where I haven't been?"
"I haven't travelled much. Last autumn I was in Iceland for a few
weeks; would you care to hear of that?"
"Very much. Just talk as if you were going over it in your memory.
Don't mind if I close my eyes; I shan't be asleep; it helps me to
imagine, that's all."
Mrs. Travis did as she was asked. Now and then Madeline put a question.
When at length there came a pause, she said abruptly:
"I suppose it seems dreadful to you, to see me lying here like this?"
"It makes me wish I had it in my power to relieve you."
"But does it seem dreadful? Could you bear to imagine yourself in the
same case? I want you to tell me truthfully. I'm not an uneducated
girl, you know; I can think about life and death as people do nowadays."
Mrs. Travis looked at her curiously.
"I can imagine positions far worse," she answered.
"That means, of course, that you could not bear to picture yourself in
this. But it's strange how one can get used to it. The first year I
suffered horribly--in mind, I mean. But then I still had hope. I have
none now, and that keeps my mind calmer. A paradox, isn't it? It's
always possible, you know, that I may feel such a life unendurable at
last, and then I should hope to find a means of bringing it to an end.
For instance, if we become so poor that I am too great a burden. Of
course I wouldn't live in a hospital. I don't mean I should be too
proud, but the atmosphere would be intolerable. And one really needn't
live, after one has decided that it's no use."
"I don't know what to say about that," murmured Mrs. Travis.
"No; you haven't had the opportunity of thinking it over, as I have. I
can imagine myself reaching the point when I should not care to have
health again, even if it were offered me. I haven't come to that yet;
oh no! To-night I am feeling dreadfully what I have lost--not like I
used to, but still dreadfully. Will you tell me something about
yourself? What kind of books do you like?"
"Pretty much the same as you do, I should fancy. I like to know what
new things people are discovering, and how the world looks to clever
men. But I can't study; I have no perseverance. I read the reviews a
good deal."
"You'd never guess the last book I have read. It lies on the chest of
drawers there--a treatise on all the various kinds of paralysis. The
word 'paralysis' used to have the most awful sound to me; now I'm so
familiar with it that it has ceased to be shocking and become
interesting. What I am suffering from is called _paraplegia_; that's
when the lower half of the body is affected; it comes from injury or
disease of the spinal cord. The paralysis begins at the point in the
vertebral column where the injury was received. But it tends to spread
upward. If it gets as far as certain nerves upon which the movements of
the diaphragm depend, then you die. I wonder whether that will be my
case?"
Mrs. Travis kept her eyes on the girl during this singular little
lecture; she felt the fascination which is exercised by strange mental
phenomena.
"Do you know Italy?" Madeline asked, with sudden transition.
"I have travelled through it, like other tourists."
"You went to Naples?"
"Yes."
"If I close my eyes, how well I can see Naples! Now I am walking
through the Villa Nazionale. I come out into the Largo Vittoria, where
the palm-trees are--do you remember? Now I might go into the
Chiatamone, between the high houses; but instead of that I'll turn down
into Via Caracciolo and go along by the sea, till I'm opposite the
Castel dell' Ovo. Now I'm turning the corner and coming on to Santa
Lucia, where there are stalls with shells and ices and fish. I can
smell the Santa Lucia. And to think that I shall never see it again,
never again.--Don't stay any longer now, Mrs. Travis. I can't talk any
more. Thank you for being so kind."
In a week's time it had become a regular thing for Mrs. Travis to spend
an hour or two daily with Madeline. Their conversation was suitable
enough to a sick-chamber, yet strangely unlike what is wont to pass in
such places. On Madeline's side it was thoroughly morbid; on that of
her visitor, a curious mixture of unhealthy speculation and pure
feeling. Mrs. Travis was at first surprised that the suffering girl
never seemed to think of ordinary religion as a solace. She herself had
no fixity of faith; her mind played constantly with creeds of negation;
but she felt it as an unnatural thing for one of Madeline's age to
profess herself wholly without guidance on so dark a journey. And
presently she began to doubt whether the profession were genuine. The
characteristic of the family was pretence and posing; Mrs. Denyer and
Barbara illustrated that every time they spoke. Not impossibly Madeline
did but declare the same tendency in her rambling and quasi-philosophic
talk. She was fond of warning Mrs. Travis against attributing to her
the common prejudices of women. And yet, were it affectation, then the
habit must be so inextricably blended with her nature as to have become
in practice a genuine motive in the mind's working. Madeline would
speculate on the difference between one of her "culture" in the
circumstances and the woman who is a slave of tradition; and a moment
after she would say something so profoundly pathetic that it brought
tears to her companion's eyes.
Mrs. Travis never spoke of her personal affairs; Madeline could supply
no food for the curiosity of her mother and sister when they questioned
her about the long private conversations. The lodger received no
visitors, and seldom a letter. In the morning she went out for an hour,
generally towards the heath; occasionally she was from home until late
at night. About the quality of the attendance given her she was wholly
indifferent; in spite of frequent inconveniences, she made her weekly
payments without a word of dissatisfaction. She had a few
eccentricities of behaviour which the Denyers found it difficult to
reconcile with the refinement of her ordinary conduct. Once or twice,
when the servant went into her sitting-room the first thing in the
morning, she was surprised to find Mrs. Travis lying asleep on the
couch, evidently just as she had come home the previous night, except
that her bonnet was removed. It had happened, too, that when some one
came and knocked at her door during the day, she vouchsafed no answer,
and yet made the sound of moving about, as if to show that she did not
choose to be disturbed, for whatever reason.
The household went its regular way. Mrs. Denyer sat in her wonted idle
dignity, or scolded the hard-driven maid-of-all-work, or quarrelled
fiercely with Barbara. Barbara was sullen, insolent, rebellious against
fate, by turns. Up in the still room lay poor Madeline, seldom visited
by either of the two save when it was necessary. All knew that the
position of things had no security; before long there must come a
crisis worse than any the family had yet experienced. Unless, indeed,
that one hope which remained to them could be realized.
One afternoon at the end of July, mother and daughter were sitting over
their tea, lamenting the necessity which kept them in London when the
eternal fitness of things demanded that they should be preparing for
travel. They heard a vehicle draw up before the house, and Barbara,
making cautious espial from the windows, exclaimed that it was Mr.
Musselwhite.
"He has a lot of flowers, as usual," she added, scornfully, watching
him as he paid the cabman. "Go into the back room, mamma. Let's say
you're not at home to-day. Send for the teapot, and get some more tea
made."
There came a high-bred knock at the front door, and Mrs. Denyer
disappeared.
Mr. Musselwhite entered with a look and bearing much graver than usual.
He made the proper remarks, and gave Barbara the flowers for her sister
then seated himself, and stroked his moustache.
"Miss Denyer," he began, when Barbara waited wearily for the familiar
topic, "my brother, Sir Grant, died a week ago."
"I am very grieved to hear it," she replied, mechanically, at once
absorbed in speculation as to whether this would make any change that
concerned her.
"It was a long and painful illness, and recovery was known to be
impossible. Yet I too cannot help grieving. As you know, we had not
seen much of each other for some years, but I had the very highest
opinion of Sir Grant, and it always gave me pleasure to think of him as
the head of our family. He was a man of great abilities, and a kind
man."
"I am sure he was--from what you have told me of him."
"My nephew succeeds to the title and the estate; he is now Sir Roland
Musselwhite. I have mentioned him in our conversations. He is about
thirty-four, a very able man, and very kind, very generous."
There was a distinct tremor in his voice; he pulled his moustache
vigorously. Barbara listened with painful eagerness.
"If you will forgive me for speaking of my private circumstances, Miss
Denyer, I should like to tell you that for some years I have enjoyed
only a very restricted income; a bachelor's allowance--really it
amounted to nothing more than that. In consequence of that, my life has
been rather unsettled; I scarcely knew what to do with myself, in fact;
now and then time has been rather heavy on my hands. You may have
noticed that, for I know you are observant."
He waited for her to say whether she had or had not observed this
peculiarity in him.
"I have sometimes been afraid that was the case," said Barbara.
"I quite thought so." He smiled with gratification. "But now--if I may
speak a little longer of these personal matters--all that is altered,
and by the very great kindness, the generosity, of my nephew Sir
Roland. Sir Roland has seen fit to put me in possession of an income
just three times what I have hitherto commanded. This does not, Miss
Denyer, make me a wealthy man; far from it. But it puts certain things
within my reach that I could not think of formerly. For instance, I
shall be able to take a modest house, either in the country, or here in
one of the suburbs. It's my wish to do so. My one great wish is to
settle down and have something to--to occupy my time."
Barbara breathed a faint approval.
"You may wonder, Miss Denyer, why I trouble you with these details.
Perhaps I might be pardoned for doing so, if I spoke with--with a
desire for your friendly sympathy. But there is more than that in my
mind. The day is come, Miss Denyer, when I am able to say what I would
gladly have said before our parting at Naples, if it had been
justifiable in me. That is rather a long time ago, but the feeling I
then had has only increased in the meanwhile. Miss Denyer, I desire
humbly to ask if you will share with me my new prosperity, such as it
is?"
The interview lasted an hour and a quarter. Mrs. Denyer panted with
impatience in the back parlour. Such an extended visit could not but
have unusual significance. On hearing the door of the other room open,
she stood up and listened. But there was no word in the passage, no
audible murmur.
The front door closed, and in two ticks of the clock Barbara came
headlong into the parlour. With broken breath, with hysterical laughing
and sobbing, she made known what had happened. It was too much for her;
the relief of suspense, the absolute triumph, were more than she could
support with decency. Mrs. Denyer shed tears, and embraced her daughter
as if they had always been on the fondest terms.
"Go up and tell Maddy!"
But, as not seldom befalls, happiness inspired Barbara with a delicacy
of feeling to which as a rule she was a stranger.
"I don't like to, mamma. It seems cruel."
"But you can't help it, my dear; and she must know tomorrow if not
to-day."
So before long Barbara went upstairs. She entered the room softly.
Madeline had her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and did not move them as
her sister approached the bed.
"Maddy!"
Then indeed she looked at the speaker, and with surprise, so unwonted
was this tone on Barbara's lips. Surprise was quickly succeeded by a
smile.
"I know, Barbara; I understand."
"What? How can you?"
"I heard a cab drive up, and I heard a knock at the door. 'That's Mr.
Musselwhite,' I thought. He has been here a long time, and now I
understand. You needn't tell me."
"But there's a good deal to tell that you can't have found out, quick
as you are."
And she related the circumstances. Madeline listened with her eyes on
the ceiling.
"We shall be married very soon," Barbara added; "as soon as a house can
be chosen. Of course it must be in London, or very near. We shall go
somewhere or other, and then, very likely, pay a formal visit to the
'place in Lincolnshire.' Think of that! Sir Roland seems a good sort of
man; he will welcome us. Think of visiting at the 'place in
Lincolnshire'! Isn't it all like a dream?"
"What will mamma do without you?"
"Oh, Zillah is to come home. We'll see about that."
"I suppose he forgot to bring me some flowers today?"
"No But I declare I forgot to bring them up. I'll fetch them at once."
She did so, running downstairs and up again like a child, with a jump
at the landings. The flowers were put in the usual place. Madeline
looked at them, and listened to her sister's chatter for five minutes.
Then she said absently:
"Go away now, please. I've heard enough for the present."
"You shall have all sorts of comforts, Maddy."
"Go away, Barbara."
The sister obeyed, looking back with compassion from the door. She
closed it softly, and in the room there was the old perfect stillness.
Madeline had let her eyelids fall, and the white face against the white
pillows was like that of one dead. But upon the eyelashes there
presently shone a tear; it swelled, broke away, and left a track of
moisture. Poor white face, with the dark hair softly shadowing its
temples! Poor troubled brain, wearying itself in idle questioning of
powers that heeded not!