A psychologist would have found much to interest him in Bridget
Cookson's mental state during the days which followed on her journey to
France. The immediate result of that journey was an acute sharpening of
intelligence, accompanied by a steady, automatic repression of all those
elements of character or mind which might have interfered with its free
working. Bridget understood perfectly that she had committed a crime,
and at first she had not been able to protect herself against the normal
reaction of horror or fear. But the reaction passed very quickly.
Conscience gave up the ghost. Selfish will, and keen wits held the
field; and Bridget ceased to be more than occasionally uncomfortable,
though a certain amount of anxiety was of course inevitable.
She did not certainly want to be found out, either by Nelly or the
Farrells; and she took elaborate steps to prevent it. She wrote first a
long letter to Howson giving her reasons for refusing to believe in his
tentative identification of the man at X---- as George Sarratt, and
begging him not to write to her sister. 'That would be indeed _cruel_.
She can just get along now, and every month she gets a little stronger.
But her heart, which was weakened by the influenza last year, would
never stand the shock of a fearful disappointment. Please let her be. I
take all the responsibility. That man is not George Sarratt. I hope you
may soon discover who he is.'
Step No. 2 was to go, on the very morning after she arrived in London,
to the Enquiry Office in A---- Street. Particulars of the case in France
had that morning reached the office, and Bridget was but just in time to
stop a letter from Miss Eustace to Nelly. When she pointed out that she
had been over to France on purpose to see for herself, that there was no
doubt at all in her own mind, and that it would only torment a frail
invalid to no purpose to open up the question, the letter was of course
countermanded. Who could possibly dispute a sister's advice in such a
case? And who could attribute the advice to anything else than sisterly
affection!
Meanwhile among the mountains an unusually early winter was beginning to
set in. The weather grew bitterly cold, and already a powdering of snow
was on the fell-tops. For all that, Nelly could never drink deep enough
of the November beauty, as it shone upon the fells through some bright
frosty days. The oaks were still laden with leaf; the fern was still
scarlet on the slopes; and the ghylls and waterfalls leapt foaming white
down their ancestral courses. And in this austerer world, Nelly's
delicate personality, as though braced by the touch of winter, seemed to
move more lightly and buoyantly. She was more vividly interested in
things and persons--in her drawing, her books, her endless knitting and
sewing for the wounded. She was puzzled that Bridget stayed so long in
town, but alack! she could do very well without Bridget. Some portion of
the savour of life, of that infinity of small pleasures which each day
may bring for the simple and the pure in heart, was again hers.
Insensibly the great wound was healing. The dragging anguish of the
first year assailed her now but rarely.
One morning she opened the windows in the little sitting-room, to let in
the sunshine, and the great spectacle of the Pikes wrapped in majestic
shadow, purple-black, with the higher peaks ranged in a hierarchy of
light behind them.
She leant far out of the window, breathing in the tonic smell of the oak
leaves on the grass beneath her, and the freshness of the mountain air.
Then, as she turned back to the white-walled raftered room with its
bright fire, she was seized with the pleasantness of this place which
was now her home. Insensibly it had captured her heart, and her senses.
And who was it--what contriving brain--had designed and built it up, out
of the rough and primitive dwelling it had once been?
Of course, William Farrell had done it all! There was scarcely a piece
of furniture, a picture, a book, that was not of his choosing and
placing. Little by little, they had been gathered round her. His hand
had touched and chosen them, every one. He took far more pleasure and
interest in the details of these few rooms than in any of his own
houses and costly possessions.
Suddenly--as she sat there on the window-ledge, considering the room,
her back to the mountains--one of those explosions of consciousness
rushed upon Nelly, which, however surprising the crash, are really long
prepared and inevitable.
What did that room really _mean_--the artistic and subtle simplicity of
it?--the books, the flowers, and the few priceless things, drawings or
terra-cottas, brought from the cottage, and changed every few weeks by
Farrell himself, who would arrive with them under his arm, or in his
pockets, and take them back in like manner.
The colour flooded into Nelly's face. She dropped it in her hands with a
low cry. An agony seized her. She loathed herself.
Then springing up passionately she began to pace the narrow floor, her
slender arms and hands locked behind her.
Sir William was coming that very evening. So was Cicely, who was to be
her own guest at the farm, while Marsworth, so she heard, was to have
the spare room at the cottage.
She had not seen William Farrell for some time--for what counted, at
least, as some time in their relation; not since that evening before
Bridget went away--more than a fortnight. But it was borne in upon her
that she had heard from him practically every day. There, in the drawer
of her writing-table, lay the packet of his letters. She looked for
them now morning after morning, and if they failed her, the day seemed
blank. Anybody might have read them--or her replies. None the less
Farrell's letters were the outpouring of a man's heart and mind to the
one person with whom he felt himself entirely at ease. The endless
problems and happenings of the great hospital to which he was devoting
more and more energy, and more and more wealth; the incidents and
persons that struck him; his loves and hates among the staff or the
patients; the humour or the pity of the daily spectacle;--it was all
there in his letters, told in a rich careless English that stuck to the
memory. Nelly was accustomed to read and re-read them.
Yes, and she was proud to receive them!--proud that he thought so much
of her opinion and cared so much for her sympathy. But _why_ did he
write to her, so constantly, so intimately?--what was the real motive of
it all?
At last, Nelly asked herself the question. It was fatal of course. So
long as no question is asked of Lohengrin--who, what, and whence he
is--the spell holds, the story moves. But examine it, as we all know,
and the vision fades, the gleam is gone.
She passed rapidly, and almost with terror, into a misery of remorse.
What had she been doing with this kindest and best of men? Allowing him
to suppose that after a little while she would be quite ready to forget
George and be his wife? That threw her into a fit of helpless crying.
The tears ran down her cheeks as she moved to and fro. Her
George!--falling out there, in that ghastly No Man's Land, dying out
there, alone, with no one to help, and quiet now in his unknown grave.
And after little more than a year she was to forget him, and be rich and
happy with a new lover--a new husband?
She seemed to herself the basest of women. Base towards George--and
towards Farrell--both! What could she do?--what must she do? Oh, she
must go away--she must break it all off! And looking despairingly round
the room, which only an hour before had seemed to her so dear and
familiar, she tried to imagine herself in exile from all it represented,
cut off from Farrell and from Cicely, left only to her own weak self.
But she must--she _must_! That very evening she must speak to Willy--she
must have it out. Of course he would urge her to stay there--he would
promise to go away--and leave her alone. But that would be too mean, too
ungrateful. She couldn't banish him from this spot that he loved, where
he snatched his few hours--always now growing fewer--of rest and
pleasure. No, she must just depart. Without telling him? Without
warning? Her will failed her.
She got out her table, with its knitting, and its bundles of prepared
work which had arrived that morning from the workroom, and began upon
one of them mechanically. But she was more and more weighed down by a
sense of catastrophe--which was also a sense of passionate shame. Why,
she was George's wife, still!--his _wife_--for who could _know_, for
certain, that he was dead? That was what the law meant. _Seven years_!
* * * * *
She spent the day in a wretched confusion of thoughts and plans. A
telegram from Cicely arrived about midday--'Can't get to you till
to-morrow. Willy and Marsworth coming to-day--Marsworth not till late.'
So any hour might bring Farrell. She sat desperately waiting for him.
Meanwhile there was a post-card from Bridget saying that she too would
probably arrive that evening.
That seemed the last straw. Bridget would merely think her a fool;
Bridget would certainly quarrel with her. Why, it had been Bridget's
constant object to promote the intimacy with the Farrells, to throw her
and Sir William together. Nelly remembered her own revolts and refusals.
They seemed now so long ago! In those days it was jealousy for George
that filled her, the fierce resolve to let no one so much as dream that
she could ever forget him, and to allow no one to give money to George's
wife, for whom George himself had provided, and should still provide.
And at an earlier stage--after George left her, and before he died--she
could see herself, as she looked back, keeping Sir William firmly at a
distance, resenting those friendly caressing ways, which others
accepted--which she too now accepted, so meekly, so abominably! She
thought of his weekly comings and goings, as they were now; how, in
greeting and good-bye, he would hold her hands, both of them, in his;
how once or twice he had raised them to his lips. And it had begun to
seem quite natural to her, wretch that she was; because he pitied her,
because he was so good to her--and so much older, nearly twenty years.
He was her brother and dear friend, and she the little sister whom he
cherished, who sympathised with all he did, and would listen as long as
he pleased, while he talked of everything that filled his mind--the war
news, his work, his books, his companions; or would sit by, watching
breathlessly while his skilful hand put down some broad 'note' of colour
or light, generally on a page of her own sketch-book.
Ah, but it must end--it must end! And she must tell him to-night.
Then she fell to thinking of how it was she had been so blind for so
long; and was now in this tumult of change. One moment, and she was
still the Nelly of yesterday, cheerful, patient, comforted by the love
of her friends; and the next, she had become this poor, helpless thing,
struggling with her conscience, her guilty conscience, and her sorrow.
How had it happened? There was something uncanny, miraculous in it. But
anyway, there, in a flash it stood revealed--her treason to George--her
unkindness to Willy.
For she would never marry him--never! She simply felt herself an
unfaithful wife--a disloyal friend.
* * * * *
The November day passed on, cloudless, to its red setting over the
Coniston fells. Wetherlam stood black against the barred scarlet of the
west, and all the valleys lay veiled in a blue and purple mist,
traversed by rays of light, wherever a break in the mountain wall let
the sunset through. The beautiful winter twilight had just begun, when
Nelly heard the step she waited for outside.
She did not run to the window to greet him as she generally did. She sat
still, by the fire, her knitting on her knee. Her black dress was very
black, with the plainest white ruffle at her throat. She looked very
small and pitiful. Perhaps she meant to look it! The weak in dealing
with the strong have always that instinctive resource.
'How jolly to find you alone!' said Farrell joyously, as he entered the
room. 'I thought Miss Bridget was due.' He put down the books with which
he had come laden and approached her with outstretched hands. 'I
say!--you don't look well!' His look, suddenly sobered, examined her.
'Oh yes, I am quite well. Bridget comes to-night.'
She hurriedly withdrew herself, and he sat down opposite her, holding
some chilly fingers to the blaze, surveying her all the time.
'Why doesn't Bridget stop here and look after you?'
Nelly laughed. 'Because she has much more interesting things to do!'
'That's most unlikely! Have you been alone all the week?'
'Yes, but quite busy, thank you--and quite well.' 'You don't look it,'
he repeated gravely, after a moment.
'So busy, and so well,' she insisted, 'that even I can't find excuses
for idling here much longer.'
He gave a perceptible start. 'What does that mean? What are you going to
do?'
'I don't know. But I think'--she eyed him uneasily--'hospital work of
some kind.'
He shook his head.
'I wouldn't take you in my hospital! You'd knock up in a week.'
'You're quite, quite mistaken,' she said, eagerly. 'I can wash dishes
and plates now as well as anyone. Hester told me the other day of a
small hospital managed by a friend of hers--where they want a
parlour-maid. I could do that capitally.'
'Where is it?' he asked, after a moment.
She hesitated, and at last said evasively--
'In Surrey somewhere--I think.'
He took up the tongs, and deliberately put the fire together, in
silence. At last he said--
'I thought you promised Cicely and me that you wouldn't attempt
anything of the kind?'
'Not till I was fit.' Her voice trembled a little. 'But now I am--quite
fit.'
'You should let your friends judge that for you,' he said gently.
'No, no, I can't. I must judge for myself.' She spoke with growing
agitation. 'You have been so awfully, awfully good to me!--and now'--she
bent forward and laid a pleading hand on his arm--'now you must be good
to me in another way I you must let me go. I brood here too much. I want
not to think--I am so tired of myself. Let me go and think about other
people--drudge a little--and slave a little! Let me--it will do me
good!'
His face altered perceptibly during this appeal. When he first came in,
fresh from the frosty air, his fair hair and beard flaming in the
firelight, his eyes all pleasure, he had seemed the embodiment of
whatever is lusty and vigorous in life--an overwhelming presence in the
little cottage room. But he had many subtler aspects. And as he listened
to her, the Viking, the demi-god, disappeared.
'And what about those--to whom it will do harm?'
'Oh no, it won't do harm--to anybody,' she faltered.
'It will do the greatest harm!'--he laid a sharp emphasis on the words.
'Isn't it worth while to be just the joy and inspiration of those who
can work hard--so that they go away from you, renewed like eagles?
Cicely and I come--we tell you our troubles--our worries--our failures,
and our successes. We couldn't tell them to anyone else. But you sit
here; and you're so gentle and so wise--you see things so clearly, just
because you're not in the crowd, not in the rough and tumble--that we go
away--bucked up!--and run our shows the better for our hours with you.
Why must women be always bustling and hurrying, and all of them doing
the same things? If you only knew the blessing it is to find someone
with a little leisure just to feel, and think!--just to listen to what
one has to say. You know I am always bursting with things to say!'
He looked at her with a laugh. His colour had risen.
'I arrive here--often--full of grievances and wrath against
everybody--hating the Government--hating the War Office--hating our own
staff, or somebody on it--entirely and absolutely persuaded that the
country is going to the dogs, and that we shall be at Germany's mercy in
six months. Well, there you sit--I don't know how you manage it!--but
somehow it all clears away. I don't want to hang anybody any more--I
think we are going to win--I think our staff are splendid fellows, and
the nurses, angels--(they ain't, though, all the same!)--and it's all
_you_!--just by being you--just by giving me rope enough--letting me
have it all out. And I go away with twice the work in me I had when I
came. And Cicely's the same--and Hester. You play upon us all--just
because'--he hesitated--'because you're so sweet to us all. You raise us
to a higher power; you work through us. Who else will do it if you
desert us?'
Her lips trembled.
'I don't want to desert you, but--what right have I to such
comfort--such luxury--when other people are suffering and toiling?'
He raised his eyebrows.
'Luxury? This little room? And there you sit sewing and knitting all
day! And I'll be bound you don't eat enough to keep a sparrow!'
There was silence. She was saying to herself--'Shall I ever be able to
go?--to break with them all?' The thought, the image, of George flashed
again through her mind. But why was it so much fainter, so much less
distinct than it had been an hour ago? Yet she seemed to turn to him, to
beg him piteously to protect her from something vague and undefined.
Suddenly a low voice spoke--
'Nelly!--don't go!'
She looked up--startled--her childish eyes full of tears.
He held out his hand, and she could not help it, she yielded her own.
Farrell's look was full of energy, of determination. He drew nearer to
her, still holding her hand. But he spoke with perfect self-control.
'Nelly, I won't deceive you! I love you! You are everything to me. It
seems as if I had never been happy--never known what happiness could
possibly mean till I knew you. To come here every week--to see you like
this for these few hours--it changes everything--it sweetens
everything--because you are in my heart--because I have the hope--that
some day----'
She withdrew her hand and covered her face.
'Oh, it's my fault--my fault!' she said, incoherently--'how could
I?--how _could_ I?'
There was silence again. He opened his lips to speak once or twice, but
no words came. One expression succeeded another on his face; his eyes
sparkled. At last he said--'How could you help it? You could not prevent
my loving you.'
'Yes, I could--I ought----,' she said, vehemently. 'Only I was a fool--I
never realised. That's so like me. I won't face things. And yet'--she
looked at him miserably--'I did beg you to let me live my own
life--didn't I?--not to spoil me--not--not to be so kind to me.'
He smiled.
'Yes. But then you see--you were you!'
She sprang up, looking down upon him, as he sat by the fire. 'That's
just it. If I were another person! But no!--no! I can't be your friend.
I'm not old enough--or clever enough. And I can't ever be anything
else.'
'Why?' He asked it very quietly, his eyes raised to hers. He could see
the quick beat of her breath under her black dress.
'Because I'm not my own. I'm not free--you know I'm not. I'm not free
legally--and I'm not free in heart. Oh, if George were to come in at
that door!'--she threw back her head with a passionate gesture--'there
would be nobody else in the world for me--nobody--nobody!'
He stooped over the fire, fidgeting with it, so that his face was hidden
from her.
'You know, I think, that if I believed there was the faintest hope of
that, I should never have said a word--of my own feelings. But as it
is--why must you feel bound to break up this--this friendship, which
means so much to us all? What harm is there in it? Time will clear up a
great deal. I'll hold my tongue--I promise you. I won't bother you. I
won't speak of it again--for a year--or more--if you wish. But--don't
forsake us!'
He looked up with that smile which in Cicely's unbiased opinion gave him
such an unfair advantage over womankind.
With a little sob, Nelly walked away towards the window, which was still
uncurtained though the night had fallen. Outside there was a starry deep
of sky, above Wetherlam and the northern fells. The great shapes held
the valley in guard; the river windings far below seemed still to keep
the sunset; while here and there shone scattered lights in farms and
cottages, sheltering the old, old life of the dales.
Insensibly Nelly's passionate agitation began to subside. Had she been
filling her own path with imaginary perils and phantoms? Yet there
echoed in her mind the low-spoken words--'I won't deceive you! I love
you!' And the recollection both frightened and touched her.
Presently Farrell spoke again, quite in his usual voice.
'I shall be in despair if you leave me to tackle Cicely alone. She's
been perfectly mad lately. But you can put it all right if you choose.'
Nelly was startled into turning back towards him.
'Oh!--how can I?'
'Tell her she has been behaving abominably, and making a good fellow's
life a burden to him. Scold her! Laugh at her!'
'What has she been doing?' said Nelly, still standing by the window.
Farrell launched into a racy and elaborate account--the effort of one
determined, _coûte que coûte_, to bring the conversation back to an
ordinary key--of Cicely's proceedings, during the ten days since Nelly
had seen her.
It appeared that Marsworth, after many weeks during which they had heard
nothing of him, had been driven north again to his Carton doctor, by a
return of neuralgic trouble in his wounded arm; and as usual had put up
at the Rectory, where as usual Miss Daisy, the Rector's granddaughter,
had ministered to him like the kind little brick she was.
'You see, she's altogether too good to be true!' said Farrell. 'And yet
it is true. She looks after her grandfather and the parish. She runs the
Sunday school, and all the big boys are in love with her. She does
V.A.D. work at the hospital. She spends nothing on her dress. She's
probably up at six every morning. And all the time, instead of being
plain, which of course virtue ought to be, she's as pretty as
possible--like a little bird. And Cicely can't abide her. I don't know
whether she's in love with Marsworth. Probably she is. Why not? At any
rate, whenever Marsworth and Cicely fall out, which they do every
day--Cicely has the vile habit--of course you know!--of visiting
Marsworth's sins upon little Daisy Stewart. I understood she was guilty
of some enormity at the Red Cross sale in the village last week.
Marsworth was shocked, and had it out with her. Consequently they
haven't been on speaking terms for days.'
'What shall we do with them to-morrow?' cried Nelly in alarm, coming to
sit down again by the fire and taking up her knitting. How strange it
was--after that moment of tempestuous emotion--to have fallen back
within a few minutes into this familiar, intimate chat! Her pulse was
still rushing. She knew that something irrevocable had happened, and
that when she was alone, she must face it. And meanwhile here she sat
knitting!--and trying to help him with Cicely as usual!
'Oh, and to-morrow!'--said Farrell with amusement, 'the fat will indeed
be in the fire.'
And he revealed the fact that on his way through Grasmere he had fallen
in with the Stewarts. The old man had been suffering from bronchitis,
and the two had come for a few days' change to some cousins at Grasmere.
'And the old man's a bit of a collector and wants to see the Turners. He
knows Carton by heart. So I had to ask them to come up to-morrow--and
there it is!--Cicely will find them in possession, with Marsworth in
attendance!'
'Why does she come at all?' said Nelly, wondering. 'She knows Captain
Marsworth will be here. She said so, in her telegram.'
Farrell shrugged his shoulders.
'"It taks aw soarts to mak a worrld," as they say up here. But Marsworth
and Cis are queer specimens! I am privately certain he can't do for long
without seeing her. And as for her, I had no sooner arranged that he
should join me here to-night, than she telegraphed to you! Just like
her! I had no idea she thought of coming. Well, I suppose to quarrel
yourself into matrimony is one of the recognised openings!'
The talk dropped. The joint consciousness behind it was too much for
it. It fell like a withered leaf.
Farrell got up to go. Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet. He took
her hand.
'Don't leave us,' he repeated, softly. 'You are our little saint--you
help us by just living. Don't attempt things too hard for you. You'll
kill yourself, and then----'
She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes.
'Well then,' he finished, abruptly, 'there won't be much left for one
man to live for. Good-night.'
He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small,
bewildered creature.
'What shall I do?' she was saying to herself, 'Oh, what ought I to do?'
She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair.
Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!--someone wise and strong
who would tell her what was right. The thought of supplanting George, of
learning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in her
heart, was horrible--even monstrous--to her. Yet she did not know how
she would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer. His devotion
appealed--not to any answering passion in her--there was none--but to an
innate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love and
be loved. Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her alone
and unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still--without harm--have been a
help to him--have shewn him her gratitude. She felt herself wavering and
retreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her great
dilemma. Must she either be disloyal to her George?--her dead, her
heroic George!--or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotion
had stood between her and despair? After all, might it not still go on?
She could protect herself. She was not afraid.
But she _was_ afraid! She was in truth held by the terror of her own
weakness, and Farrell's strength, as she lay crouching by the fire.
Outside the wind was rising. Great clouds were coming up from the
south-west. The rain had begun. Soon it was lashing the windows, and
pouring from the eaves of the old farmhouse.
Nelly went back to her work; and the wind and rain grew wilder as the
hours passed. Just as she was thinking wearily of going to bed, there
were sounds of wheels outside.
Bridget? so late! Nelly had long since given her up. What a night on
which to face the drive from Windermere! Poor horse!--poor man!
Yes, it was certainly Bridget! As Nelly half rose, she heard the harsh,
deep voice upon the stairs. A tall figure, heavily cloaked, entered.
'My dear Bridget--I'd quite given you up!'
'No need,' said Bridget coolly, as she allowed Nelly to kiss her cheek.
'The afternoon train from Euston was a little late. You can't help that
with all these soldiers about.'
'Come and sit down by the fire. Have you done all you wanted to do?'
'Yes.'
Bridget sat down, after taking off her wet water-proof, and held a
draggled hat to the blaze. Nelly looking at her was struck by the fact
that Bridget's hair had grown very grey, and the lines in her face very
deep. What an extraordinary person Bridget was! What had she been doing
all this time?
But nothing could be got out of the traveller. She sat by the fire for a
while, and let Nelly get her a tray of food. But she said very little,
except to complain of the weather, and, once, to ask if the Farrells
were at the cottage.
'Sir William is there, with Captain Marsworth,' said Nelly. 'Cicely
comes here to-morrow.'
'Does she expect me to give her my room?' said Bridget sharply.
'Not at all. She likes the little spare-room.'
'Or pretends to! Has Sir William been here to-day?'
'Yes, he came round.'
A few more questions and answers led to silence broken only by the
crackling of the fire. The firelight played on Nelly's cheek and throat,
and on her white languid hands. Presently it caught her wedding-ring,
and Bridget's eye was drawn to the sparkle of the gold. She sat looking
absently at her sister. She was thinking of a tiny room in a hut
hospital--of the bed--and of those eyes that had opened on her. And
there sat Nelly--knowing nothing!
It was all a horrible anxiety. But it couldn't last long.