ONWARD TO THE VAGUE
The cab drew up in a quiet road in Chelsea, by a gateway opening into a
yard. Cecily alighted and paid the driver.
"Be good enough to wait a minute or two," she said. "I may need you
again at once. But if I am longer, I shall not be coming."
Entering the yard, she came in front of a row of studios; on the door
of each was the tenant's name, and she easily discovered that of Ross
Mallard. This door was half open; she looked in and saw a flight of
stairs. Having ascended these, she came to another door, which was
closed. Here her purpose seemed to falter; she looked back, and held
her hand for a moment against her cheek. But at length she knocked.
There was no answer. She knocked again, more loudly, leaning forward to
listen; and this time there came a distant shout for reply.
Interpreting it as summons to enter, she turned the handle; the door
opened, and she stepped into a little ante-chamber. From a room within
came another shout, now intelligible.
"Who's there?"
She advanced, raised a curtain, and found herself in the studio, but
hidden behind some large canvases. There was a sound of some one
moving, and when she had taken another step, Mallard himself, pipe in
mouth, came face to face with her. With a startled look, he took the
pipe from his lips, and stood regarding her; she met his gaze with the
same involuntary steadiness.
"Are you alone, Mr. Mallard?" fell at length from her.
"Yes. Come and sit down."
There was a gruffness in the invitation which under ordinary
circumstances would have repelled a visitor. But Cecily was so glad to
hear the familiar voice that its tone mattered nothing; she followed
him, and seated herself where he bade her. There was much tobacco-smoke
in the air; Mallard opened a window. She watched him with timid,
anxious eyes. Then, without looking at her, he sat down near an easel
on which was his painting of the temples of Paestum. This canvas held
Cecily's gaze for a moment.
"When did you get home?" Mallard asked abruptly.
"Yesterday morning."
"Mrs. Lessingham went on, I suppose?"
"Yes. I have been alone ever since, except that a visitor called."
"Alone?"
She met his eyes, and asked falteringly:
"You know why? You have heard about it?"
"Do you mean what happened the other day?" he returned, in a voice that
sounded careless, unsympathetic.
"Yes."
"I know that, of course. Where is your husband?"
"I have neither seen him nor heard from him. I shouldn't have
understood why he kept away but for the visitor that came--a lady; she
showed me a newspaper."
Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked
away. His visage was profoundly troubled. There was silence for some
moments. Cecily's eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and
other objects about her.
"You have come to ask me if I know where he is?"
She failed in her attempt to reply.
"I am sorry that I can't tell you. I know nothing of him. But perhaps
Mrs. Baske does. You know their address?"
"I didn't come for that," she answered, with decision, her features
working painfully. "It is not my part to seek for him."
"Then how can I help you?" Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with more
evidence of the feeling that his tone disguised.
"You can't help me, Mr. Mallard. How could any one help me? I was
utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend's voice."
"That is only natural. It is impossible for you to remain alone. You
don't feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?"
She shook her head.
"But your aunt will come? You have written to her?"
"No. I had rather she didn't come. It seems strange to you that I
should bring my troubles here, when it can only pain you to see me, and
to have to speak. But I am not seeking comfort or support--not of the
kind you naturally think I need."
As he watched the workings of her lips, the helpless misery in her
young eyes, the endeavour for self-command and the struggles of womanly
pride, Mallard remembered how distinctly he had foreseen this in his
past hours of anguish. It was hard to grasp the present as a reality;
at moments he seemed only to be witnessing the phantoms of his
imagination. The years that had vanished were so insubstantial in
memory; _now_ and _then_, what was it that divided the two? This that
was to-day a fact, was it not equally so when Cecily walked by his side
at Baiae? That which is to come, already is. In the stress of a deep
emotion we sometimes are made conscious of this unity of things, and
the effect of such spiritual vision is a nobler calm than comes of mere
acquiescence in human blindness.
"I came here," Cecily was continuing, "because I had something to say
to you--something I shall never say to any one else. You were my
guardian when I was a child, and I have always thought of you as more
than a simple friend. I want to fulfil a duty to you. I owe you
gratitude, and I shall have no rest till I have spoken it--told you how
deeply I feel it."
Mallard interrupted her, for every word seemed to be wrung from her by
pain, and he felt like one who listens to a forced confession.
"Don't give way to this prompting," he said, with kind firmness. "I
understand, and it is enough. You are not yourself; don't speak whilst
you are suffering so."
"My worst suffering would be _not_ to speak," she replied, with
increased agitation. "I must say what I came to say; then I can go and
face whatever is before me. I want to tell you how right you were. You
told me through Mrs. Lessingham how strongly you disapproved of my
marrying at once; you wished me to take no irrevocable step till I knew
myself and him better. You did everything in your power to prevent me
from committing a childish folly. But I paid no regard to you. I ought
to have held your wish sacred; I owed you respect and obedience. But I
chose my own foolish way, and now that I know how right you were, I
feel the need of thanking you. You would have saved me if you could. It
is a simple duty in me to acknowledge this now I know it."
Mallard rose and stood for a minute looking absently at the temples.
Then he turned gravely towards her.
"If it has really lightened your mind to say this, I am content to have
heard it. But let it end there; there is no good in such thoughts and
speeches. They are hysterical, and you don't like to be thought that.
Such a service as you believe I might have rendered you is so very
doubtful, so entirely a matter of suppositions and probabilities and
possibilities, that we can't talk of it seriously. I acted as any
guardian was bound to act, under the circumstances. You, on the other
hand, took the course that young people have taken from time
immemorial. The past is past; it is worse than vain to revive it. Come,
now, let us talk for a few minutes quietly."
Cecily's head was bent. He saw that her bosom heaved, but on her face
there was no foreboding of tears. The strong impulse having had its
way, she seemed to be recovering self command.
"By the bye," he asked, "how did you know where to find me?"
"I found a letter of yours lying open. Did he answer your invitation?"
"Yes; he wrote a few lines saying he would come before long. But I
haven't seen him. What do you intend to do when you leave me?"
"Go home again and wait," she answered, with quiet sadness.
"In solitude? And what assurance have you that he means to come?"
"None whatever. But where else should I go, but home? My place is
there, until I have heard his pleasure."
It was mournfully unlike her, this bitter tone. Her eyes were fixed
upon the picture again. Looking at her, Mallard was moved by something
of the same indignant spirit that was still strong in her heart. Her
pure and fine-wrought beauty, so subtle in expression of the soul's
life, touched him with a sense of deepest pathos. It revolted him to
think of her in connection with those brutalities of the newspaper; he
had a movement of rebellion against the undiscerning rigour of social
rule. Disinterested absolutely, but he averted his face lest she should
have a suspicion of what he thought.
In spite of that, he was greatly relieved to hear her purpose. He had
feared other things. It was hateful that she should remain the wife of
such a man as Elgar, but what refuge was open to her? The law that
demands sacrifice of the noble few on behalf of the ignoble many is too
swift and sure in avenging itself when defied. It was well that she had
constrained herself to accept the inevitable.
"You will write this evening to Mrs. Lessingham?" he said, in a tone of
assuredness.
"Why do you wish me to do that?" she asked, looking at him.
"Because of the possibility of your still being left alone. You are not
able to bear that."
"Yes, I can bear anything that is necessary now," she answered firmly.
"If it was weakness to come here and say what I have said, then my
weakness is over. Mrs. Lessingham is enjoying herself with friends; why
should I disturb her? What have I to say to her, or to any one?"
"Suppose an indefinite time goes by, and you are still alone?"
"In that case, I shall be able to arrange my life as other such women
do. I shall find occupation, the one thing I greatly need. My gravest
misfortune is, that I feel the ability to do something, but do not know
what. Since the death of my child, that is what has weighed upon me
most."
Mallard reflected upon this. He could easily understand its truth. He
felt assured that Miriam suffered in much the same way, having reached
the same result by so very different a process of development. But it
was equally clear to him that neither of these women really could _do_
anything; it was not their function to do, but to _be_. Eleanor Spence
would in all likelihood have illustrated the same unhappy problem had
it been her lot to struggle against adverse conditions; she lived the
natural life of an educated woman, and therefore was beset by no
questionings as to her capacities and duties. So long, however, as the
educated woman is the exceptional woman, of course it will likewise be
exceptional for her life to direct itself in a calm course.
To discuss such questions with Cecily was impossible. How should he say
to her, "You have missed your chance of natural happiness, and it will
only be by the strangest good fortune if you ever again find yourself
in harmony with fate"? Mallard had far too much discretion to assume
the part of lay preacher, and involve himself in the dangers of
suggesting comfort. The situation was delicate enough, and all his
efforts were directed to subduing its tone. After a pause, he said to
her:
"Have you taken your meals to-day?"
She smiled a little.
"Yes. But I am thirsty. Can you give me a glass of water?"
"Are you _very_ thirsty? Can you wait a quarter of an hour?"
With a look of inquiry as to his meaning, she answered that she could.
Mallard nodded, and began to busy himself in a corner of the studio.
She saw that he was lighting a spirit-lamp, and putting a kettle over
it. She made no remark; it was soothing to sit here in this
companionship, and feel the feverish heat in her veins gradually
assuaged. Mallard kept silence, and when he saw her beginning to look
around at the pictures, he threw out a word or two concerning them. She
rose, to see better, and moved about, now and then putting a question
In little more than the stipulated time, tea was prepared. After a
short withdrawal to the ante-room, Mallard produced some delicate
slices of bread and butter. Cecily ate and drank. As it was growing
dusk, the artist lit a lamp.
"You know," she said, again turning her eyes to the pictures, "that I
used to pretend to draw, to make poor little sketches. Would there be
any hope of my doing anything, not good, but almost good, if I began
again and worked seriously?"
He would rather have avoided answering such a question; but perhaps the
least dangerous way of replying was to give moderate approval.
"At all events, you would soon find whether it was worth while going on
or not. You might take some lessons; it would be easy to find some lady
quite competent to help you in the beginning."
She kept silence for a little; then said that she would think about it.
Mallard had left his seat, and remained standing. When both had been
busy with their thoughts for several minutes, Cecily also rose.
"I must ask a promise from you before you go," Mallard said, as soon as
she had moved. "If you are still alone tomorrow, you promise me to
communicate with Mrs. Lessingham. Whether you wish to do so or not is
nothing to the point."
She hesitated, but gave her promise.
"That is enough; your word gives me assurance. You are going straight
home? Then I will send for a cab."
In a few minutes the cab was ready at the gate. Mallard, resolved to
behave as though this were the most ordinary of visits, put on his hat
and led the way downstairs. They went out into the road, and then
Cecily turned to give him her hand. He looked at her, and for the first
time spoke on an impulse.
"It's a long drive. Will you let me come a part of the way with you?"
"I shall be very glad."
They entered the hansom, and drove off.
The few words that passed between them were with reference to Mrs.
Lessingham. Mallard inquired about her plans for the summer, and Cecily
answered as far as she was able. When they had reached the
neighbourhood of Regent's Park, he asked permission to stop the cab and
take his leave; Cecily acquiesced. From the pavement he shook hands
with her, seeing her face but dimly by the lamplight; she said only
"Thank you," and the cab bore her away.
Carried onward, with closed eyes as if in self-abandonment to her fate,
Cecily thought with more repugnance of home the nearer she drew to it.
It was not likely that Reuben had returned; there would be again an
endless evening of misery in solitude. When the cab was at the end of
Eel size Park, she called the driver's attention, and bade him drive on
to a certain other address, that of the Denyers. Zillah's letter of
appeal, all but forgotten, had suddenly come to mind and revived her
sympathies. Was there not some resemblance between her affliction and
that of poor Madeline? Her own life had suffered a paralysis; helpless
amid the ruin of her hopes, she could look forward to nothing but long
endurance.
On arriving, she asked for Mrs. Denyer, but that lady was from home.
Miss Zillah, then. She was led into the front room on the ground floor,
and waited there for several minutes.
At length Zillah came in hurriedly, excusing herself for being so long.
This youngest of the Denyers was now a tall awkward, plain girl, with a
fixed expression of trouble; in talking, she writhed her fingers
together and gave other signs of nervousness; she spoke in quick, short
sentences, often breaking off in embarrassment. During the years of her
absence from home as a teacher, Zillah had undergone a spiritual
change; relieved from the necessity of sustaining the Denyer tone, she
had by degrees ceased to practise affectation with herself, and one by
one the characteristics of an "emancipated" person had fallen from her.
Living with a perfectly conventional family, she adopted not only the
forms of their faith--in which she had, of course, no choice--but at
length the habit of their minds; with a profound sense of solace, she
avowed her self-deceptions, and became what nature willed her to be--a
daughter of the Church. The calamities that had befallen her family had
all worked in this direction with her, and now that her daily life was
in a sick-chamber, she put forth all her best qualities, finding in
accepted creeds that kind of support which only the very few among
women can sincerely dispense with.
"She has been very, very ill the last few days," was her reply to
Cecily's inquiry. "I don't venture to leave her for more than a few
minutes."
"Mrs. Denyer is away!"
"Yes; she is staying at Sir Roland's, in Lincolnshire. Barbara and her
husband are there, and they sent her an invitation."
"But haven't you a nurse?"
"I'm afraid I shall be obliged to find one."
"Can I help you to-night? Do let me. I have only been home two days,
and came in reply to your letter as soon as I could."
They went up to Zillah's room, and Cecily threw aside her out-of-door
clothing. Then they silently entered the sick-chamber.
Madeline was greatly changed in the short time since Cecily had seen
her. Ceaseless pain had worn away the last traces of her girlish
beauty; the drawn features, the deadened eyes, offered hope that an end
must come before long. She gave a look of recognition as the visitor
approached her, but did not attempt to speak.
"Are you easier again, dear?" Zillah asked, bending over her.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Elgar would like to stay with you a little. She won't ask you to
talk."
"Very well. Go and rest while she stays."
"Yes, go and lie down," urged Cecily. "Please do! I will call you at
once if it is necessary."
Zillah was persuaded, and Cecily took her seat alone by the bedside.
She had lost all thought of herself. The tremor which possessed her
when she entered was subsiding; the unutterable mournfulness of this
little room made everything external to it seem of small account. She
knew not whether it was better to speak or remain mute, and when
silence had lasted for a few minutes, she could not trust her voice to
break it. But at length the motionless girl addressed her.
"Have you enjoyed yourself in Italy?"
"Not much. I have not been very well," Cecily answered, leaning forward.
"Did you go to Naples?"
"Only as far as Rome."
"How can any one be in Italy, and not go to Naples?" said Madeline, in
a low tone of wonder.
Silence came again. Cecily listened to the sound of breathing. Madeline
coughed, and seemed to make a fruit less effort to speak; then she
commanded her voice.
"I took a dislike to you at Naples," she said, with the simple
directness of one who no longer understands why every thought should
not be expressed. "It began when you showed that you didn't care for
Mr. Marsh's drawings. It is strange to think of that now. You know I
was engaged to Mr. Marsh?"
"Yes."
"He used to write me letters; I mean, since _this_. But it is a long
time since the last came. No doubt he is married now. It would have
been better if he had told me, and not just ceased to write. I want
Zillah to write to him for me; but she doesn't like to."
"Why do you think he is married?" Cecily asked.
"Isn't it natural? I'm not so foolish as to wish to prevent him. It's
nothing to me now. I should even be glad to hear of it. He ought to
marry some good-natured, ordinary kind of girl, who has money. Of
course you were right about his drawings; he was no artist, really. But
I had a liking for him."
Cecily wondered whether it would be wise or unwise to tell what she
knew. The balance seemed in favour of holding her peace. In a few
minutes, Madeline moaned a little.
"You are in pain?"
"That's nothing; pain, pain--I find it hard to understand that life is
anything but pain. I can't live much longer, that's the one comfort.
Death doesn't mean pain, but the end of it. Yesterday I felt myself
sinking, sinking, and I said, 'Now this is the end,' and I could have
cried with joy. But Zillah gave me something, and I came back. That's
cruelty, you know. They ought to help us to die instead of keeping us
alive in pain. If doctors had any sense they would help us to die;
there are so many simple ways. You see the little bottle with the blue
label; look round; the little bottle with the measure near it. If only
it had been left within my reach! They call it poison when you take too
much of it; but poison means sleep and rest and the end of pain."
Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; that
strange voice made all the world unreal.
"Do you believe in a life after this?" asked Madeline, with earnestness.
"I know nothing," was the answer.
"Neither do I. It matters nothing to me. All I have to do is to die,
and then whatever comes will come. Poor Zillah does her best to
persuade me that she _does_ know. I shall try to seem as if I believed
her. Why should I give her pain? What does it matter if she is wrong?
She is a kind sister to me, and I shall pretend that I believe her.
Perhaps she is right? She may be, mayn't she?"
"She may be."
"It's good of you to come and sit here while she rests. She hasn't gone
to bed for two nights. She's the only one of us that cares for me.
Barbara has got her husband; well, I'm glad of that. And there's no
knowing; she might live to be Lady Musselwhite. Sir Roland hasn't any
children. Doesn't it make you laugh?"
She herself tried to laugh--a ghostly sound. It seemed to exhaust her.
For half an hour no word was spoken. Then Cecily, who had fallen into
brooding, heard herself called by a strange name.
"Miss Doran!"
She rose and bent over the bed, startled by this summons from the dead
past.
"Can I do anything for you, Madeline?"
The heavy eyes looked at her in a perplexed way. They seemed to be just
awaking, and Madeline smiled faintly.
"Didn't I call you, Miss Doran? I was thinking about you, and got
confused. But you are married, of course. What is your name now? I
can't remember."
"Mrs. Elgar."
"How silly of me! Mrs. Elgar, of course. Are you happily married?"
"Why do you ask?"
For the first time, she remembered the possibility that the Denyers
knew of her disgrace. But Madeline's reply seemed to prove that she, at
all events, had no such thing in mind.
"I was only trying to remember whom you married. Yes, yes; you told us
about it before. Or else. Mrs. Travis told me."
"What did she say?"
"Only that you had married for love, as every woman ought to. But _she_
is very unhappy. Perhaps that would have been my own lot if I had
lived. I dare say I should have been married long ago. What does it
matter? But as long as one is born at all, one might as well live life
through, see the best as well as the worst of it. It's been all worst
with me.--Oh, that's coming again! That wishing and rebelling and
despairing! I thought it was all over. You stand there and look at me;
that is you and this is I, this, this! I am lying here waiting for
death and burial. You have the husband you love, and long years of
happy life before you.--Do you feel sorry for me? Suppose it was you
who lay here?"
The same question she had put to Mrs. Travis, but now spoken in a more
anguished voice. The tear's streamed from Cecily's eyes.
"You cry, like Zillah does when she tries to persuade me. I don't know
whether I had rather be pitied, or lie quite alone. But don't cry. You
shan't go away and be made miserable by thinking of me. I can bear it
all well enough; there can't be much more of it, you know. Sit down
again, if you have time. Perhaps you want to go somewhere to-night--to
see friends?"
"No. I will stay with you as long as ever you wish."
Presently the conversation ceased, and then for nearly three hours
Cecily listened to the sound of breathing. At length the door softly
opened, and Zillah came in. She was distressed; it had struck twelve
long since, and only now had she awoke from sleep. Cecily entreated her
to go and sleep again; she herself had no desire to close her eyes.
"But what will Mr. Elgar think has become of you?"
"He is not at home to-night. Let me have my way, there's a good girl."
Zillah, whose eyelids could scarcely be supported, at length went back
to her room. Madeline still slept, with unusual calmness. The vigil was
resumed, and nothing again disturbed it until white dawn began to
glimmer at the windows.
Then Madeline awoke with a sudden loud cry of anguish. Cecily, aroused
from slumber which was just beginning, sprang up and spoke to her. But
the cry seemed to have been the end of her power of utterance; she
moved her lips and looked up fearfully. Cecily hastened to summon
Zillah.