Some weeks afterwards Field went to England. He did not take Mamie with
him, for he intended to remain only a few days, nor had she been at all
desirous of accompanying him. She had begun, indeed, to see that she
did not know what she did desire. Her life in Paris oppressed her; the
notion of Duluth was horrible; and the thought of living with Lucas in
London, where she might meet an acquaintance of Heriot's at any turn,
was repugnant in an almost equal degree.
Field was unexpectedly detained in London. The business that had been
responsible for his journey constantly evaded completion, and after
he had been gone about a month a letter came, in which he mentioned
incidentally that he had a touch of influenza. After this letter a
fortnight went by without her hearing from him; and, rendered anxious
at last, she wrote to inquire if his silence was attributable to his
indisposition--if the latter was of a serious nature.
Her mind did not instantaneously grasp the significance of the telegram
that she tore open a few hours later. It ran:
"My nephew dangerously ill. If you desire to see him, better
come.--Porteous."
She stood gazing at it. Who had telegraphed? Who---- Then she understood
that it was Lucas who was meant. Lucas was "dangerously ill"! She must
go to him. She must go at once! She was so staggered by the suddenness
of the intelligence that she was momentarily incapable of recollecting
when the trains left, or how she should act in order to ascertain. All
she realised was that this was Paris, and Lucas lay "dangerously ill"
in London, and that she had to reach him. Her head swam, and the little
French that she knew seemed to desert her; the undertaking looked
enormous--beset with difficulties that were almost insuperable.
The stupidity of the _bonne_, for whom she pealed the bell, served to
sharpen her faculties a trifle, but she made her preparations as in a
dream. When she found herself in the train, it appeared to her unreal
that she could be there. The interval had left no salient impressions
on her brain, nothing but a confused sense of delay. It was only now
that she felt able to reflect.
The telegram was crumpled in her pocket, and she took it out and
re-read it agitatedly. How did this relative come to be at the hotel?
Lucas had scarcely spoken of his relations. "If you desire to see him"!
The import of those words was frightful--he could not be expected to
recover. Her stupefaction rolled away, and was succeeded by a fever of
suspense. The restriction of the compartment was maddening, and she
looked at her watch a dozen times, only to find that not ten minutes
had passed since she consulted it last.
It seemed to her that she had been travelling for at least two days,
when she stood outside a bedroom in a little hotel off Bond Street and
tapped at the door with her heart in her throat.
The door was opened by a woman whose dress proclaimed her to be an
institution nurse. Field slept, and Mamie sank into a chair, and waited
for his wakening.
"How is he?" she asked in a low tone.
The nurse shook her head.
"He's not doing as well as we could wish, ma'am."
"Is Mr. Porteous here?"
"_Mrs._ Porteous. She'll be coming presently. She lives close by."
So it was a woman who had telegraphed! Somehow she had assumed
unquestioningly that it was a man. "If you desire to see him----"
Ah, yes, she might have known it! An aunt, who would be frigid and
contemptuous, of course. Well, she deserved that, she would have no
right to complain; nor was it to be expected that Lucas's family should
show her much consideration, though she could not perceive that she had
done them any injury.
Two hours passed before she had an interview with the lady. Mamie was
in the room that she had engaged in the meanwhile. She had bathed her
face, and was making ready to return to the sick-room, when she was
told that Mrs. Porteous was inquiring for her.
"Won't you come in?" she asked. "Our voices won't disturb him here."
Mrs. Porteous entered gingerly. She was a massive woman, of middle age,
fashionably dressed. Her expression suggested no grief, only a vague
fear of contamination. She had telegraphed to Paris because she felt
that it was her duty to do so; but she had not telegraphed until it was
almost certain that the patient would not rally sufficiently to make a
will.
"You are--er--Mrs. Heriot?" she said, regarding her curiously. "The
doctor thought that Mr. Field's condition ought to be made known to
you; so I wired."
"Thank you; it was very kind."
"The doctor advised it," said Mrs. Porteous again, significantly.
"Is he--is there no hope?"
"We fear not; my nephew is sinking fast--it's as well you should
understand it. If you think it necessary to remain---- I see you have
taken a room? As--as 'Mrs. Field,' I presume?"
"I should have been 'Mrs. Field,' if Lucas----"
His aunt shivered.
"There are things we need not discuss. Of course I'm aware that you are
living under my nephew's name. I was about to say that if you think it
necessary to remain till the end, I have no opposition to offer; but
the end is very near now. My telegram must have prepared you? I should
not have wired unless----"
"I understood," answered Mamie, "yes. I am glad that your nephew had a
relative near him, though your name was quite strange to me. He never
mentioned it."
"Really! Lucas called to see us at once. Our house is in the
neighbourhood."
"He wrote me," said Mamie, "that he had a touch of influenza. It seems
extraordinary that influenza should prove so serious? He was strong, he
was in good health----"
The other's air implied that she did not find it necessary to discuss
this either.
"People die of influenza, or the results of it, every year," she said.
"The doctor will give you any information you may desire, no doubt. You
must excuse me--I may be wanted."
While Field lingered she never left his side, after Mamie's arrival.
Men committed preposterous actions on their death-beds, and though he
was not expected to recover consciousness, there was the possibility
that he might do so. If an opportunity occurred, his mistress would
doubtless produce a solicitor and a provision for herself with the
rapidity of a conjuring trick. As it was, Mrs. Porteous had small
misgivings but what he would die intestate. There might not be much,
but at any rate, what he had should not swell the coffers of guilty
wives!
Events proved that her summons had not been precipitate, however. Field
spoke at the last a few coherent words, and took Mamie's hand. But that
was all. Then he never spoke any more. Even as she stood gazing at the
unfamiliar face on the pillow, the swiftness of the catastrophe made
it difficult for the girl to realise that all was over. The calamity
had fallen on her like a thunderbolt--it seemed strange, inexplicable,
untrue. The last time but one that he had talked to her he had been
full of vigour, packing a portmanteau, humming a tune, alluding to
fees, some details of the theatre, the prospect of a smooth crossing.
And now he was dead. There had been little or no transition; he was
well--he was dead! The curtain had tumbled in the middle of the
play--and it would never go up any more.
It was not till after the funeral that she was capable of meditating on
the change that Lucas Field's death had wrought in her life. She did
not ask herself whether he had left her anything, or not. The idea that
he might have done so never occurred to her, nor would she have felt
that she could accept his bequest if he had made one. She perceived
that she had nobody to turn to but her father, and to him she cabled.
Cheriton replied by two questions: What was Field's will? And would she
like to return to Duluth? To the second she made a definite answer.
"Impossible; pray don't ask me." And then there was an interval of
correspondence.
While Mrs. Porteous rejoiced to find that her confidence was justified
and that her nephew had died intestate, Mamie was contemplating the
choice of swallowing her repugnance to going back to America, or of
living with Mrs. Baines. Cheriton had written to them both, and that
one course or the other should be adopted he was insistent. Mamie need
not live in Lavender Street; Mrs. Baines might make her home in another
neighbourhood, where they would be strangers. But that the girl should
remain alone in England was out of the question. Which line of conduct
did she prefer?
She could not decide immediately. Both proposals distressed her. On the
whole, perhaps, the lesser evil was to resign herself to her Aunt Lydia
if, as her father declared, her aunt was willing to receive her. Mrs.
Baines, at any rate, was but one, while in Duluth half the population
would be acquainted with her story.
But _was_ her Aunt Lydia willing?--was she expected to write to her and
inquire? She was not entitled to possess dignity, of course; but it was
not easy to eat dust because the right to self-respect was forfeited.
She had removed to a lodging in Bernard Street, Bloomsbury, and in the
fusty sitting-room she sat all day, lonely and miserable, reviewing
the blunder of her life. She neither wrote nor read--her writing was
an idea she hated now; she merely thought--wishing she could recall
the past, wondering how she could bear the future. One afternoon when
she sat there, pale and heavy-eyed, the maid-of-all-work announced a
visitor, and Mrs. Baines came in.
Mamie rose nervously, and the other advanced. She had rehearsed an
interview which should be a compromise between the instructions that
had been given her by her brother, and the attitude of righteous rebuke
that she felt to be a permissible luxury, but the forlornness of the
figure before her drove her opening sentence from her head. All she
could utter was the girl's name; and then there was a pause in which
they looked at each other.
"It is kind of you to come," Mamie murmured.
"I hope you're well?" said Mrs. Baines.
"Not very. I----Won't you sit down?"
"I never thought I should see you like this, Mamie!" said the widow
half involuntarily, shaking her head.
The girl made no answer in words. She caught her breath, and stood
passive. If the lash fell she would suffer silently.
"We always see sin punished, though." She believed we always did; she
retained such startling optimism. "It's not for me to reproach you."
"Thank you. I'm not too happy, Aunt Lydia."
"I daresay, my dear. I haven't come to make it worse for you."
She scrutinised her again. She would have been horrified to hear
the suggestion, but her niece's presence was not without a guilty
fascination, a pleasurable excitement, to her as she remembered that
here was one who had broken the Seventh Commandment. She was sitting
opposite a girl who had lived in Paris with a lover; and she was
sitting opposite her in circumstances which redounded to her own credit!
"I have heard from your father," she went on; "I suppose you know?"
"Yes," said Mamie; "he has written me."
"And do you wish to make your home with me again? I'm quite ready to
take you if you like."
"I could never live in Lavender Street any more, Aunt Lydia. You must
understand that--that it would be awful to me."
"Your father hinted at my moving. It will be a great trouble, but I
shan't shirk my duty, dear Mamie. If it will make your burden any
easier to bear, we will live together somewhere else. I say, if I can
make your burden any easier for you, I will live somewhere else."
"I am not ungrateful. I.... Yes, if you will have me, I should like to
come to you."
Mrs. Baines sighed, and smoothed her skirt tremulously.
"To Balham?" she inquired.
"You are moving to Balham?"
"I was thinking about it. I was over there the other day to get some
stuff for a bodice. It's nice and healthy, and the shopping is cheap."
"It's all the same to me where we go," said Mamie, "so long as the
people don't know me."
"I hear you were living with--with _him_ in Paris? Operas, and
drives, and all manner of things to soothe your conscience he gave
you, no doubt?" said Mrs. Baines, in an awestruck invitation to
communicativeness. "After that terrible life in Paris, Balham will seem
quiet to you, I daresay; but perhaps you won't mind that?'
"No place can be too quiet for me. The quieter it is, the better I
shall like it."
"That's as it should be! Though, I suppose, with _him_ you were out
among gaieties every night?" She waited for a few particulars again. As
none were forthcoming: "Then I'll try to let the house, and we'll go
over together and look at some in Balham as soon as you like, my dear,"
she continued. "Your father will see that I'm not put to any expense.
In the meantime you'll stay where you are, eh? You know--you know I saw
Mr. Heriot after you'd gone, don't you?"
"No," stammered the girl, lifting eager eyes. "You went to him?"
"The very next day, my dear, so it seemed! I thought I'd drop in and
have a cup of tea with you, not having seen you for so long; and
through missing a train, and having such a time to wait at the station,
I was an hour and more late when I got to Kensington. He was at home.
Of course I had no idea there was anything wrong; I shall never forget
it--never! You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard
you'd gone."
"What," muttered Mamie, "what did he say?"
"It was like this. I said to him, 'Dear Mamie's away, the servant tells
me?' For naturally I thought you were visiting friends; 'as likely
as not, she's with his family,' I thought to myself. 'Oh, yes,' he
said, 'you must prepare yourself for a shock, Mrs. Baines--my wife has
left me.' 'Left you?' I said. 'Yes,' said he, so cool that it turned
me a mask of blood to hear him, 'she's gone away with a lover.' 'Mr.
Heriot!' I exclaimed--'_Mister_ Heriot!' 'She left a note,' he said,
'so it's quite true. Do you think we need talk about it much? I don't
know that a worthless woman is any loss,' he said."
"He said that?"
"Those were his very words, my dear. And that cool! I stared at him.
I'd no mind to make excuses for you, Gawd knows; but, for all that,
one's own flesh and blood wasn't going to be talked about like niggers
in _my_ hearing. When I got my wits together, I said, 'It seems to
me I'd be sorrier for you, Mr. Heriot, if you took it different.'
'Oh,' said he in his superior way, 'would you? We needn't discuss
my feelings, madam. Perhaps you'll stay and dine?' I was so angry
that I couldn't be civil to him. 'I thank you,' I said, 'I will not
stay and dine. And I take the opportunity, Mr. Heriot, of telling
you you're a brute!' With that I came away; but there was much more
in between that I've forgotten. About the divorce it was. He said he
had 'a duty to himself,' and that the man could marry you when you
were divorced; which I suppose he _would_ have done if he had lived?
though whether your sin would have been any less, my dear, if an
archbishop had performed the ceremony is a question that I couldn't
undertake to decide. You must begin your life afresh, now that it's all
'absolute'--which I learn is the proper term--and you'll never be in a
newspaper any more. Pray to Heaven for aid, and take heart of grace!
And if it will relieve you to speak sometimes of those sinful months
with--with the other one in Paris, why, you shall talk about them to
me, my dear, and I won't reproach you."
Mamie was no longer listening. An emotion that she did not seek to
define was roused in her as she wondered if Heriot could indeed have
taken the blow so stoically as her aunt declared. She scarcely knew
whether she wished to put faith in his demeanour or not, but the
subject was one that filled her thoughts long after Mrs. Baines's
departure. It was one to which she constantly recurred.
With less delay than might have been anticipated, the widow found
a house in Balham to fulfil her requirements, and the removal was
effected several months before No. 20, Lavender Street was sub-let.
The houses of this class differ from one another but slightly.
Excepting that the one in Balham was numbered "44," and that the street
was called "Rosalie Road," Mamie could have found it easy to believe
that she was re-installed in Wandsworth. It seemed to her sometimes
as if the van that had removed the furniture had also brought the
ground-floor parlour, with the miniature bay window overlooking the
shrubs and the plot of mould. The back yard with the clothes prop, and
the neighbours' yards with the continuous clatter, they too might have
been transferred from Lavender Street; and so abiding was the clatter
that even if she felt sleepy at nine o'clock, it was useless to go to
bed before eleven. In view of this unintermittent necessity for back
yards, she wondered how the inmates of more expensive houses for which
back yards were not provided managed to support the deficiency. The
women that she viewed, from the bedroom, among the clothes lines, or
across the plot of mould, as they went forth with string bags, might
have been the Lavender Street tenants. And were they not the Lavender
Street children, these who on week-days swung, unkempt, on the little
creaking gates along the road, and on Sundays walked abroad in colours
so grotesquely unsuited to them?
Such houses are, for the most part, happily, the crown of lives too
limited to realise their limitations--too unsuccessful to be aware
that they have failed. To Rosalie Road, Balham, with her Aunt Lydia
for companion, the divorced woman at the age of twenty-six retired
to remember that she had once hoped to be an artist, and had had the
opportunity of being happy.
To-day she hoped for nothing. There was no scope for hope. If she could
have awakened to find herself famous, her existence would have been
coloured a little--though she knew that fame could not satisfy her now
as it would once have done--but the ability to labour for distinction
was gone. She was apathetic, she had no interest in anything. When six
months had passed, she regarded death as the only event to which she
could still look forward; when she had been here a year, a glimmer of
relief entered into her depression--the doctor who had attended her,
and sounded her lungs, told her that she "must take care of herself."
Sometimes a neighbour looked in, and spoke of dilapidations and
the indifference of the landlord; of the reductions at a High Road
linendraper's, and the whooping-cough. Sometimes a curate called to
sell tickets for a concert more elementary than his sermons. In the
afternoon she walked to Tooting Bec and stared at the bushes; in the
evening she betook herself to the "circulating library," where _Lady
Audley's Secret_ and _The Wide, Wide World_ were displayed and the
proprietor said he hadn't heard of Meredith--"perhaps she had made a
mistake in the name?" God help her! She was guilty and she had left
a husband desolate; but the music that she had dreamed of was the
opera on Wagner nights; the books that she had expected were copies
containing signatures that were the envy of the autograph-collector;
the circle that had been her aim was the world of literature and art.
She lived at Balham; she saw the curate, and she heard about the
dilapidations in the neighbour's roof. One year merged into another;
and if she lived for forty more, the neighbour and the curate would be
her All.