THE ENIGMAS OF LADY JOAN
ON an evening when the sky was clear and only its fringes embroidered
with the purple arabesques of the sunset, Joan Brett was walking on the
upper lawn of the terraced garden at Ivywood, where the peacocks trail
themselves about. She was not unlike one of the peacocks herself in
beauty, and some might have said, in inutility; she had the proud head
and the sweeping train; nor was she, in these days, devoid of the
occasional disposition to scream. For, indeed, for some time past she
had felt her existence closing round her with an incomprehensible
quietude; and that is harder for the patience than an incomprehensible
noise. Whenever she looked at the old yew hedges of the garden they
seemed to be higher than when she saw them last; as if those living
walls could still grow to shut her in. Whenever from the turret windows
she had a sight of the sea, it seemed to be farther away. Indeed, the
whole closing of the end of the turret wing with the new wall of eastern
woodwork seemed to symbolise all her shapeless sensations. In her
childhood the wing had ended with a broken-down door and a disused
staircase. They led to an uncultivated copse and an abandoned railway
tunnel, to which neither she nor anyone else ever wanted to go. Still,
she knew what they led to. Now it seemed that this scrap of land had
been sold and added to the adjoining estate; and about the adjoining
estate nobody seemed to know anything in particular. The sense of things
closing in increased upon her. All sorts of silly little details
magnified the sensation. She could discover nothing about this new
landlord next door, so to speak, since he was, it seemed, an elderly man
who preferred to live in the greatest privacy. Miss Browning, Lord
Ivywood’s secretary, could give her no further information than that he
was a gentleman from the Mediterranean coast; which singular form of
words seemed to have been put into her mouth. As a Mediterranean
gentleman might mean anything from an American gentleman living in
Venice to a black African on the edge of the Atlas, the description did
not illuminate; and probably was not intended to do so. She occasionally
saw his liveried servants going about; and their liveries were not like
English liveries. She was also, in her somewhat morbid state, annoyed by
the fact that the uniforms of the old Pebblewick militia had been
changed, under the influence of the Turkish _prestige_ in the recent
war. They wore fezzes like the French Zouaves, which were certainly much
more practical than the heavy helmets they used to wear. It was a small
matter, but it annoyed Lady Joan, who was, like so many clever women, at
once subtle and conservative. It made her feel as if the whole world was
being altered outside, and she was not allowed to know about it.
But she had deeper spiritual troubles also, while, under the pathetic
entreaties of old Lady Ivywood and her own sick mother, she stayed on
week after week at Ivywood House. If the matter be stated cynically (as
she herself was quite capable of stating it) she was engaged in the
established feminine occupation of trying to like a man. But the
cynicism would have been false; as cynicism nearly always is; for during
the most crucial days of that period, she had really liked the man.
She had liked him when he was brought in with Pump’s bullet in his
leg; and was still the strongest and calmest man in the room. She had
liked him when the hurt took a dangerous turn, and when he bore pain
to admiration. She had liked him when he showed no malice against the
angry Dorian; she had liked him with something like enthusiasm on the
night he rose rigid on his rude crutch, and, crushing all
remonstrance, made his rash and swift rush to London. But, despite the
queer closing-in-sensations of which we have spoken, she never liked
him better than that evening when he lifted himself laboriously on his
crutch up the terraces of the old garden and came to speak to her as
she stood among the peacocks. He even tried to pat a peacock in a hazy
way, as if it were a dog. He told her that these beautiful birds were,
of course, imported from the East—by the semi-eastern empire of
Macedonia. But, all the same, Joan had a dim suspicion that he had
never noticed before that there were any peacocks at Ivywood. His
greatest fault was a pride in the faultlessness of his mental and
moral strength; but, if he had only known, something faintly comic in
the unconscious side of him did him more good with the woman than all
the rest.
“They were said to be the birds of Juno,” he said, “but I have little
doubt that Juno, like so much else of the Homeric mythology, has also an
Asiatic origin.”
“I always thought,” said Joan, “that Juno was rather too stately for the
seraglio.”
“You ought to know,” replied Ivywood, with a courteous gesture, “for I
_never_ saw anyone who looked so like Juno as you do. But, indeed, there
is a great deal of misunderstanding about the Arabian or Indian view of
women. It is, somehow, too simple and solid for our paradoxical
Christendom to comprehend. Even the vulgar joke against the Turks, that
they like their brides fat, has in it a sort of distorted shadow of what
I mean. They do not look so much at the individual, as at Womanhood and
the power of Nature.”
“I sometimes think,” said Joan, “that these fascinating theories are a
little strained. Your friend Misysra told me the other day that women
had the highest freedom in Turkey; as they were allowed to wear
trousers.”
Ivywood smiled his rare and dry smile. “The Prophet has something of a
simplicity often found with genius,” he answered. “I will not deny that
some of the arguments he has employed have seemed to me crude and even
fanciful. But he is right at the root. There is a kind of freedom that
consists in never rebelling against Nature; and I think they understand
it in the Orient better than we do in the West. You see, Joan, it is all
very well to talk about love in our narrow, personal, romantic way; but
there is something higher than the love of a lover or the love of love.”
“What is that?” asked Joan, looking down.
“The love of Fate,” said Lord Ivywood, with something like spiritual
passion in his eyes. “Doesn’t Nietzsche say somewhere that the delight
in destiny is the mark of the hero? We are mistaken if we think that the
heroes and saints of Islam say ‘Kismet’ with bowed heads and in sorrow.
They say ‘Kismet’ with a shout of joy. That which is fitting—that is
what they really mean. In the Arabian tales, the most perfect prince is
wedded to the most perfect princess—because it is fitting. The spiritual
giants, the Genii, achieve it—that is, the purposes of Nature. In the
selfish, sentimental European novels, the loveliest princess on earth
might have run away with her middle-aged drawing-master. These things
are not in the Path. The Turk rides out to wed the fairest queen of the
earth; he conquers empires to do it; and he is not ashamed of his
laurels.”
The crumpled violet clouds around the edge of the silver evening looked
to Lady Joan more and more like vivid violet embroideries hemming some
silver curtain in the closed corridor at Ivywood. The peacocks looked
more lustrous and beautiful than they ever had before; but for the first
time she really felt they came out of the land of the Arabian Nights.
“Joan,” said Phillip Ivywood, very softly, in the twilight, “I am not
ashamed of my laurels. I see no meaning in what these Christians call
humility. I will be the greatest man in the world if I can; and I think
I can. Therefore, something that is higher than love itself, Fate and
what is fitting, make it right that I should wed the most beautiful
woman in the world. And she stands among the peacocks and is more
beautiful and more proud than they.”
Joan’s troubled eyes were on the violet horizon and her troubled lips
could utter nothing but something like “don’t.”
“Joan,” said Phillip, again, “I have told you, you are the woman one of
the great heroes could have desired. Let me now tell you something I
could have told no one to whom I had not thus spoken of love and
betrothal. When I was twenty years old in a town in Germany, pursuing my
education, I did what the West calls falling in love. She was a
fisher-girl from the coast; for this town was near the sea. My story
might have ended there. I could not have entered diplomacy with such a
wife, but I should not have minded then. But a little while after, I
wandered into the edges of Flanders, and found myself standing above
some of the last grand reaches of the Rhine. And things came over me but
for which I might be crying stinking fish to this day. I thought how
many holy or lovely nooks that river had left behind, and gone on. It
might anywhere in Switzerland have spent its weak youth in a spirit over
a high crag, or anywhere in the Rhinelands lost itself in a marsh
covered with flowers. But it went on to the perfect sea, which is the
fulfilment of a river.”
Again, Joan could not speak; and again it was Phillip who went on.
“Here is yet another thing that could not be said, till the hand of the
prince had been offered to the princess. It may be that in the East they
carry too far this matter of infant marriages. But look round on the mad
young marriages that go to pieces everywhere! And ask yourself whether
you don’t wish they had been infant marriages! People talk in the
newspapers of the heartlessness of royal marriages. But you and I do not
believe the newspapers, I suppose. We know there is no King in England;
nor has been since his head fell before Whitehall. You know that you and
I and the families are the Kings of England; and our marriages are royal
marriages. Let the suburbs call them heartless. Let us say they need the
brave heart that is the only badge of aristocracy. Joan,” he said, very
gently, “perhaps you have been near a crag in Switzerland, or a marsh
covered with flowers. Perhaps you have known—a fisher-girl. But there is
something greater and simpler than all that; something you find in the
great epics of the East—the beautiful woman, and the great man, and
Fate.”
“My lord,” said Joan, using the formal phrase by an unfathomable
instinct, “will you allow me a little more time to think of this? And
let there be no notion of disloyalty, if my decision is one way or the
other?”
“Why, of course,” said Ivywood, bowing over his crutch; and he limped
off, picking his way among the peacocks.
For days afterward Joan tried to build the foundations of her earthly
destiny. She was still quite young, but she felt as if she had lived
thousands of years, worrying over the same question. She told herself
again and again, and truly, that many a better woman than she had taken
a second-best which was not so first-class a second-best. But there was
something complicated in the very atmosphere. She liked listening to
Phillip Ivywood at his best, as anyone likes listening to a man who can
really play the violin; but the great trouble always is that at certain
awful moments you cannot be certain whether it is the violin or the man.
Moreover, there was a curious tone and spirit in the Ivywood household,
especially after the wound and convalescence of Ivywood, about which she
could say nothing except that it annoyed her somehow. There was
something in it glorious—but also languorous. By an impulse by no means
uncommon among intelligent, fashionable people, she felt a desire to
talk to a sensible woman of the middle or lower classes; and almost
threw herself on the bosom of Miss Browning for sympathy.
But Miss Browning, with her curling, reddish hair and white, very clever
face, struck the same indescribable note. Lord Ivywood was assumed as a
first principle; as if he were Father Time, or the Clerk of the Weather.
He was called “He.” The fifth time he was called “He,” Joan could not
understand why she seemed to smell the plants in the hot conservatory.
“You see,” said Miss Browning, “we mustn’t interfere with his career;
that is the important thing. And, really, I think the quieter we keep
about everything the better. I am sure he is maturing very big plans.
You heard what the Prophet said the other night?”
“The last thing the Prophet said to me,” said the darker lady, in a
dogged manner, “was that when we English see the English youth, we cry
out ‘He is crescent!’ But when we see the English aged man, we cry out
‘He is cross!’”
A lady with so clever a face could not but laugh faintly; but she
continued on a determined theme, “The Prophet said, you know, that all
real love had in it an element of fate. And I am sure that is his view,
too. People cluster round a centre as little stars do round a star;
because a star is a magnet. You are never wrong when destiny blows
behind you like a great big wind; and I think many things have been
judged unfairly that way. It’s all very well to talk about the infant
marriages in India.”
“Miss Browning,” said Joan, “are you interested in the infant marriages
in India?”
“Well—” said Miss Browning.
“Is your sister interested in them? I’ll run and ask her,” cried Joan,
plunging across the room to where Mrs. Mackintosh was sitting at a table
scribbling secretarial notes.
“Well,” said Mrs. Mackintosh, turning up a rich-haired, resolute head,
more handsome than her sister’s, “I believe the Indian way is the best.
When people are left to themselves in early youth, any of them might
marry anything. We might have married a nigger or a fish-wife or—a
criminal.”
“Now, Mrs. Mackintosh,” said Joan, with black-browed severity, “you well
know you would never have married a fish-wife. Where is Enid?” she ended
suddenly.
“Lady Enid,” said Miss Browning, “is looking out music in the music
room, I think.”
Joan walked swiftly through several long salons, and found her
fair-haired and pallid relative actually at the piano.
“Enid,” cried Joan, “you know I’ve always been fond of you. For God’s
sake tell me what is the matter with this house? I admire Phillip as
everybody does. But what is the matter with the house? Why do all these
rooms and gardens seem to be shutting me in and in and in? Why does
everything look more and more the same? Why does everybody say the same
thing? Oh, I don’t often talk metaphysics; but there is a purpose in
this. That’s the only way of putting it; there is a purpose. And I don’t
know what it is.”
Lady Enid Wimpole played a preliminary bar or two on the piano. Then she
said,
“Nor do I, Joan. I don’t indeed. I know exactly what you mean. But it’s
just because there is a purpose that I have faith in him and trust him.”
She began softly to play a ballad tune of the Rhineland; and perhaps the
music suggested her next remark. “Suppose you were looking at some of
the last reaches of the Rhine, where it flows—”
“Enid!” cried Joan, “if you say ‘into the North Sea,’ I shall scream.
Scream, do you hear, louder than all the peacocks together.”
“Well,” expostulated Lady Enid, looking up rather wildly, “The Rhine
_does_ flow into the North Sea, doesn’t it?”
“I dare say,” said Joan, recklessly, “but the Rhine might have flowed
into the Round Pond, before you would have known or cared, until—”
“Until what?” asked Enid; and her music suddenly ceased. “Until
something happened that I cannot understand,” said Joan, moving away.
“_You_ are something I cannot understand,” said Enid Wimpole. “But I
will play something else, if this annoys you.” And she fingered the
music again with an eye to choice.
Joan walked back through the corridor of the music room, and restlessly
resumed her seat in the room with the two lady secretaries.
“Well,” asked the red-haired and good-humoured Mrs. Mackintosh, without
looking up from her work of scribbling, “have you discovered anything?”
For some moments Joan appeared to be in a blacker state of brooding than
usual; then she said, in a candid and friendly tone, which somehow
contrasted with her knit and swarthy brows—
“No, really. At least I think I’ve only found out two things; and they
are only things about myself. I’ve discovered that I do like heroism,
but I don’t like hero worship.”
“Surely,” said Miss Browning, in the Girton manner, “the one always
flows from the other.”
“I hope not,” said Joan.
“But what else can you do with the hero?” asked Mrs. Mackintosh, still
without looking up from her writing, “except worship him?”
“You might crucify him,” said Joan, with a sudden return of savage
restlessness, as she rose from her chair. “Things seem to happen then.”
“Aren’t you tired?” asked the Miss Browning who had the clever face.
“Yes,” said Joan, “and the worst sort of tiredness; when you don’t even
know what you’re tired of. To tell the honest truth, I think I’m tired
of this house.”
“It’s very old, of course, and parts of it are still dismal,” said Miss
Browning, “but he has enormously improved it. The decoration, with the
moon and stars, down in the wing with the turret is really—”
Away in the distant music room, Lady Enid, having found the music she
preferred, was fingering its prelude on the piano. At the first few
notes of it, Joan Brett stood up, like a tigress.
“Thanks—” she said, with a hoarse softness, “that’s it, of course! and
that’s just what we all are! She’s found the right tune now.”
“What tune is it?” asked the wondering secretary.
“The tune of harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer and all kinds of music,”
said Joan, softly and fiercely, “when we shall bow down and worship the
Golden Image that Nebuchadnezzar the King has set up. Girls! Women! Do
you know what this place is? Do you know why it is all doors within
doors and lattice behind lattice; and everything is curtained and
cushioned; and why the flowers that are so fragrant here are not the
flowers of our hills?”
From the distant and slowly darkening music room, Enid Wimpole’s song
came thin and clear:
“Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel,
Less than the rust that never stained thy sword—”
“Do you know what we are?” demanded Joan Brett, again. “We are a Harem.”
“Why, what can you mean?” cried the younger girl, in great agitation.
“Why, Lord Ivywood has never—”
“I know he has never. I am not sure,” said Joan, “even whether he would
ever. I shall never understand that man, nor will anybody else. But I
tell you that is the spirit. That is what we _are_. And this room stinks
of polygamy as certainly as it smells of tube-roses.”
“Why, Joan,” cried Lady Enid, entering the room like a well-bred ghost,
“what on earth is the matter with you. You all look as white as sheets.”
Joan took no heed of her but went on with her own obstinate argument.
“And, besides,” she said, “if there’s one thing we do know about him it
is that he believes on principle in doing things slowly. He calls it
evolution and relativity and the expanding of an idea into larger ideas.
How do we know he isn’t doing that slowly; getting us accustomed to
living like this, so that it may be the less shock when he goes
further—steeping us in the atmosphere before he actually introduces,”
and she shuddered, “the institution. Is it any more calmly outrageous a
scheme than any other of Ivywood’s schemes; than a sepoy
commander-in-chief, or Misysra preaching in Westminster Abbey, or the
destruction of all the inns in England? I will not wait and expand. I
will not be evolved. I will not develop into something that is not me.
My feet shall be outside these walls if I walk the roads for it
afterward; or I will scream as I would scream trapped in any den by the
Docks.”
She swept down the rooms toward the turret, with a sudden passion for
solitude; but as she passed the astronomical wood-carving that had
closed up the end of the old wing, Enid saw her strike it with her
clinched hand.
It was in the turret that she had a strange experience. She was again,
later on, using its isolation to worry out the best way of having it out
with Phillip, when he should return from his visit to London; for to
tell old Lady Ivywood what was on her mind would be about as kind and
useful as describing Chinese tortures to a baby. The evening was very
quiet, of the pale grey sort, and all that side of Ivywood lay before
her eyes, undisturbed. She was the more surprised when her dreaming took
note of a sort of stirring in the grey-purple dusk of the bushes; of
whisperings; and of many footsteps. Then the silence settled down again;
and then it was startlingly broken by a big voice singing in the dark
distance. It was accompanied by faint sounds that might have been from
the fingering of some lute or viol:
“Lady, the light is dying in the skies,
Lady, and let us die when honour dies,
Your dear, dropped glove was like a gauntlet flung,
When you and I were young.
For something more than splendour stood; and ease was not the only good
About the woods in Ivywood when you and I were young.
“Lady, the stars are falling pale and small,
Lady, we will not live if life be all
Forgetting those good stars in heaven hung
When all the world was young,
For more than gold was in a ring, and love was not a little thing
Between the trees in Ivywood when all the world was young.”
The singing ceased; and the bustle in the bushes could hardly be called
more than a whisper. But sounds of the same sort and somewhat louder
seemed wafted round corners from other sides of the house; and the whole
night seemed full of something that was alive, but was more than a
single man.
She heard a cry behind her, and Enid rushed into the room as white as
one of the lilies.
“What awful thing is happening?” she cried. “The courtyard is full of
men shouting, and there are torches everywhere and—”
Joan heard a tramp of men marching and heard, afar off, another song,
sung on a more derisive note, something like—
“But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He rots the tree as ivy would.”
“I think,” said Joan, thoughtfully, “it is the End of the World.”
“But where are the police?” wailed her cousin. “They don’t seem to be
anywhere about since they wore those fezzes. We shall be murdered or—”
Three thundering and measured blows shook the decorative wood panelling
at the end of the wing; as if admittance were demanded with the club of
a giant. Enid remembered that she had thought Joan’s little blow
energetic, and shuddered. Both the girls stared at the stars and moons
and suns blazoned on that sacred wall that leapt and shuddered under the
strokes of the doom.
Then the sun fell from Heaven, and the moon and stars dropped down and
were scattered about the Persian carpet; and by the opening of the end
of the world, Patrick Dalroy came in, carrying a mandolin.
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