XI

Mrs. Austen looked at Lennox, who had been looking at her, but who was

then looking at the rug, in the border of which were arabesques. He did

not see them. The rug was not there. The room itself had disappeared.

The nymph, the dial, the furniture, the decorations and costly

futilities with which the room was cluttered, all these had gone. Mrs.

Austen had ceased to be. In that pleasant room, in the presence of this

agreeable woman, Lennox was absolutely alone, as, in any great crisis of

the emotions, we all are.

Of one thing he was conscious. He was suffering atrociously. Pain

blanketed him. But though the blanket had the poignancy of thin knives,

he kept telling himself that it was all unreal.

He raised his eyes. During the second in which they had been lowered, a

second that had been an eternity in hell, his expression had not

altered. He was taking it, apparently at least, unmoved.

Mrs. Austen, who was looking at him, saw it and thought: He is a

gentleman. The reflection encouraged her and she sighed and said:

"Believe me, I am sorry."

Lennox did not believe her, but he let it go. What he did believe was

that Margaret could not see him. But whether she would, if she could,

was another matter. On Saturday he had expected her at his rooms. She

had not come. In the evening he had called. She had a headache. On the

following day he had returned. She was not feeling well. Now on this

third day, Mrs. Austen, who on the two previous occasions had received

him, once more so far condescended, yet on this occasion to tell him

that he was free, that it was Margaret's wish, that the engagement was

ended.

In so telling him, Mrs. Austen told, for a wonder, the truth, though as

will sometimes happen even to the best of us, not all the truth. It were

extravagant to have expected it of her. But she told all that she

thought good for him; more exactly good for Margaret; more precisely for

herself.

It was then that the pleasant room with its clutter of costly futilities

disappeared and this agreeable woman ceased to be. The avalanche of the

modulated announcement sent Lennox reeling not merely out of the room,

but out of the world, deeply into hell.

It was then, too, that with a sigh, modulated also, Mrs. Austen had

added: "Believe me, I am sorry."

Lennox looked at her. "You say that Margaret wants our engagement

broken. Why?"

"She has changed her mind."

"So I infer. But why?"

"Because she is a woman."

"But not the ordinary woman. It is the ordinary woman who changes her

mind--when she has one to change. Margaret is not of that kind. Margaret

is not the kind to promise herself to a man and then throw him over. You

will forgive me if I speak heatedly, but I do not believe it."

With frosty indulgence Mrs. Austen reassured him. "You do not believe

that I will forgive you? But, really, there is nothing to forgive.

Though, whether Margaret is ordinary or superior, has nothing to do with

it. Dear me, no. Women are not what they were. One often hears that and

often, too, one hears people wondering why. That always amuses me. The

reason is so simple, isn't it? Women are not what they were because they

used to be girls. Before that they were children. At one time they were

babes. Naturally they change. They can't help it. It must be a general

law. Or at least one may suppose so. One may suppose, too, that, in

changing, they develop and in developing acquire the extraordinary

ability to think things over. That is just what Margaret had done. It is

no reflection on you, Mr. Lennox, and I should be very sorry if you

thought so. I am sure Margaret has the highest esteem for you. I know

that I have."

Mrs. Austen, smiling frostily as she lied, thought: Now why doesn't he

take it and go? I hope he won't be tedious.

Lennox too had his thoughts. She is trying to swamp me in words, he told

himself. That angered him and he showed it.

"What are these things? When I last saw Margaret she said nothing about

any things. There was no change in her then. I would stake my life that

she had no idea of breaking our engagement. There must be a reason for

it. What is it?"

Arrogantly Mrs. Austen took it up. "There is no reason for your raising

your voice, at any rate. As for the things, they ought to be obvious. In

addition to habits and customs, very suitable in Wall Street no doubt,

but not otherwise appealing, Margaret has found you a bit rough,

high-tempered, domineering for all I know to the contrary, and----"

That's a damned lie, thought Lennox, who aggressively cut in: "Margaret

never found me anything of the kind. What is more I will thank you to

understand that I will not accept this dismissal--if it be one--from

you."

There is a show of decency that is due to any woman. But the veneer of

civilisation is very thin. From beneath it, the potential troglodyte,

that lurks in us all, is ready enough to erupt. Ready and eager then, he

was visible in Lennox' menacing eyes, manifest in his threatening voice.

Mrs. Austen saw the brute, saw rather that little, if anything,

restrained Lennox from jumping up, banging about, hunting for Margaret's

room, entering there and catechising her violently. Margaret was ill but

never too ill to tell the truth. Once he learned that, there was the fat

in the fire.

She had no time to lose. From the wardrobe of the actress that she was,

she snatched at an oleaginous mask and with the mucilage of it smiled at

him.

"Why, of course not. Not for a moment would I have you accept it from

me. I never dreamed of such a thing. It wouldn't be right. Margaret

shall tell you herself. She would be here now, but the poor child had

such a wretched night. You never had neuralgia, have you? At her age I

was a martyr to it. I remember I took something that ended in 'ine.'

Yesterday I suggested it but the doctor would not hear of it. Said she

needed building up. Spoke of her just as though she were a town out

West; so unsympathetic I thought him, but of course I did not say so. He

might have charged extra and he is expensive enough as it is, and always

so ready to talk about his own affairs, just like my dentist. I told him

once--the dentist I mean--that I really could not afford to pay him

thirty dollars an hour to hear about his wife and I don't think he liked

it. I know I didn't when I got his bill. But where was I? Oh, yes.

To-morrow or the next day, as soon as Margaret is the least bit better,

you will be sure to have a line from her and if you do not, and you care

to, you must certainly look in. For you must always regard us as

friends. Me at any rate. Won't you, Mr. Lennox?"

Moistening her lips, mentally she continued: Yes, count on that. But

inwardly she relaxed. Such danger as there may have been had gone. Under

the dribble of the mucilage the fire in his eyes had flickered and sunk.

He was too glued now for revolt. So she thought, but she did not know

him.

During the sticky flow of her words, he knew she was trying to gammon

him. But he knew quite as well that Margaret would make no such attempt,

and he knew it for no other reason than because he knew she was

incapable of it. Incidentally he determined what he would do. Having

determined it, he stood up.

"Very good. I shall expect to hear from Margaret to-morrow. If I do not

hear I will come, and when I come----"

Lennox paused and compressed his lips. The compression finished the

sentence. If come he did, no power of hers, or of any one else, would

budge him an inch until he saw Margaret and had it out with her.

"Good-evening," he added and Mrs. Austen found herself looking at his

retreating back which, even in retreat, was a menace.

"Merciful fathers!" she exclaimed, and, with that sense of humour which

is the saving grace, the dear woman put her hand to her stays. She was

feeling for her heart. She had none. Or any appetite, she presently told

a servant who came to say that dinner was served.

She misjudged herself. For twenty-five minutes, in an adjoining room,

she ate steadily and uncomplainingly. She had bouillon, skate in black

butter, cutlets in curl-papers, sweetbread and cockscombs, a cold

artichoke, hot almond pudding, an apricot, a bit of roquefort, a pint of

claret, a thimble of benedictine and not a twinge, none of the

indigestion of square-dealing, none of gastritis of good faith. She was

a well-dressed ambition, intent on her food. No discomfort therefore. On

the contrary. Margaret was in bed--safe there. Fate and the cook were

kind.

With the taste of the liqueur still in her mouth, she went to her

daughter who was ill with one of those maladies which, being primarily

psychical, science cannot treat. Science is a classification of human

ignorance. It has remedies for the flesh, it has none for the soul. The

remedies exist, but they are dispensed only by the great apothecaries

that time and philosophy are.

At the moment neither was available. Behind Margaret's forehead a

monster crouched and crunched. That was nothing. It was in the tender

places of her heart that the girl agonised and by comparison to the

torture there, the monster was benign.

Margaret was nineteen, which is a very mature age; perhaps the most

mature, since all girlhood lies behind it. Beyond are the

pharmacop[oe]ias of time and, fortune favouring, the sofas of

philosophy. But these sofas, even when within reach, are not adapted to

everybody. To the young, they are detestable. Reposefully they admonish

that nothing is important. They whisper patience to the impatient. To

hope, they say, "Be still"; to desire, "Be quiet"; to wisdom, "Be

foolish."

Conversation of that kind is very irritating, when you have heard it,

which Margaret never had. She was otherwise ignorant. She did not know

that a sage wrote a book in praise of folly. But she acted as though she

knew it by heart. She believed, as many of us do believe, that love

confers the right to run a fence around the happy mortals for whom we

care. It is a very astounding belief. Margaret, who believed in many

wonderful things, believed in that and, being credulous, believed also

that her betrothed had crawled under the fence and into what mire! It

polluted her, soiled her thoughts, followed and smeared her in the

secret chambers of her being. Any cross is heavy. This cross was

degrading.

In her darkened room, on her bed of pain, she had shrunk from it. Her

forehead was a coronet of fire. That was nothing. A greater pain

suppresses a lesser one. The burn of her soul was a moxa to the burn of

the flesh.

The cross, at first, seemed to her more than she could bear. She tried

to put it from her. Failing in that, she tried to endure it. But there

are times and occasions when resignation in its self-effacement

resembles suicide. She tried to resign herself, but she could not, her

young heart rebelled.

In that rebellion, evil came, peered at her, sat at her side, pulled at

her sleeve, sprang at her. The evil was hatred for this man who had

taken her love and despoiled it. She clasped it to her. It bruised but

it comforted. It dulled both the flame in her forehead and the shame in

her soul. Then as suddenly she began to cry.

Philosophy she lacked, but theosophy, which is a pansophy, she

possessed--when she did not need it. Now, when she needed it most, it

was empty as the noise in the street. Even otherwise it could not have

changed the unchangeable course of events.

There are sins that are scarlet. There are others, far worse, that are

drab. Melancholy tops them. It is a mere duty to be serene. That she

could not be. She could not face life, as life perhaps is. She could not

smile at a lover who loved elsewhere. It was not herself, it was he who

prevented her. So she thought and for hours in her darkened room she

washed her hands of him, washed them in tears. It took a wise man to

write the praise of folly.

The door of the room opened. It opened slowly, noiselessly, obviously.

With exasperating precautions Mrs. Austen entered. The taste of

benedictine was still in her mouth and, savouring it, she whispered:

"Are you asleep?"

"No."

"Will you eat anything?"

"No."

"Are you able to talk?"

Margaret turned. She could talk, but to what end and to whom? Certainly

not to her mother, who possessed in its perfection, the household art of

misinterpreting everything. Margaret had tried to love her. But perhaps

any affection is a habit when it does not happen to be an instinct. The

habit had never been formed, the instinct had been repressed. Always her

mother had treated her with that indulgence which is as empty as an

unfilled grate. There was no heat there. You could not warm your heart

at it. But a child must love some one. Margaret had begun by loving her

mother. That is the way with children. They begin by loving their

parents. Later they judge them. Sometimes, though not always, they

forgive. One should not judge anybody. Margaret knew that, but she was a

human being. She thought her mother a worldly woman. The fact that she

was false as Judas was not apparent to this girl whose knowledge of

Iscariotism was as hearsay as her knowledge of gorillas.

Now, as she turned in her bed, it was in defence against intrusion.

Deference to her mother she had always observed. But she could not admit

her to the privacy of her thoughts and, in turning her face to the wall,

she told herself that she would not be cross-questioned.

Mrs. Austen had no intention of putting her daughter in the

confessional. Anything of the kind would have bored her. Besides, what

she thought was unimportant. It was what she did or might do that

mattered.