"How about the new gown?"
(He remembered it.)
"That don't matter. Aunt's gone instead of me."
"Wearing it? She couldn't. Get into it at once, and leave that
confounded cloth alone and go. You've plenty of time."
She repeated that she did not want to go, and went on laying the cloth.
"Why not?" said he.
"I don't want to leave you, sir."
"Do you mean to say you've given up that Dog Show--with Joey in it--for
me?"
"Joey isn't in it; and I'd rather be here looking after you."
"I won't be looked after. I insist on your going. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I hear you."
"And you're going?"
"No, sir." She meditated with her head a little on one side; a way she
had. "I've got a headache, and--and--and I don't want to go and see them
other dogs, sir."
"Oh, that's it, is it? A feeling for Joey?"
But by the turn of head he knew it wasn't. Rose was lying, the little
minx.
"But you _must_ go somewhere. You _shall_ go somewhere. You shall go--I
say, supposing you go for a drive with me?"
"You mustn't take me for drives, sir."
"Mustn't I?"
"I don't want you to give me drives--or--or anything."
"I see. You are to do all sorts of things for me, and I'm not to be
allowed to do anything for you."
She placed his chair for him in silence, and as he seated himself he
looked up into her face.
"Do you want to please me, Rose?"
Her face was firm as she looked at him. It was as if she held him in
check by the indomitable set of her chin, and the steady light of her
eyes. (Where should he be if Rose were to let herself go?)
Her mouth trembled, it protested against these austerities and
decisions. It told him dumbly that she did want, very much, to please
him; but that she knew her place.
Did she? Did she indeed know her place? Did he know it?
"You're right, Rose. That isn't the way I ought to have put it. Will you
do me the honour of going for a drive with me?"
She looked down, troubled and uncertain.
"It can be done, Rose," he said, answering her thoughts. "It can be
done. The only thing is, would you like it?"
"Yes, sir, I would like it very much."
"Can you be ready by three o'clock?"
At three she was ready.
She wore the lilac gown she had bought for the Show, and the hat. It had
red roses in it.
He did not like her gown. It was trimmed with coarse lace, and he could
not bear to see her in anything that was not fine.
"Is anything wrong with my hair?" said Rose.
"No, nothing's wrong with your hair, but I think I like you better in
the green and brown----"
"That's only for every day."
"Then I shall like you better every day."
"Why do you like my green and brown dress?"
He looked at her again and suddenly he knew why.
"Because you had it on when I first saw you. I say, would you mind
awfully putting it on instead of that thing?"
She did mind, awfully; but she went and put it on. And still there was
something wrong with her. It was her hat. It did not go with the green
and brown. But he felt that he would be a brute to ask her to take that
off, too.
They drove to Hendon and back. They had tea at "Jack Straw's Castle."
(Rose's face surrendered to that ecstasy.) And then they strolled over
the West Heath and found a hollow where Rose sat down under a birch-tree
and Tanqueray stretched himself at her feet.
"Rose," he said suddenly, "do you know what a wood-nymph is?"
"Well," said Rose, "I suppose it's some sort of a little animal."
"Yes, it's a little animal. A delightful little animal."
"Can you catch it and stroke it?"
"No. If you tried it would run away. Besides, you're not allowed to
catch it, or to stroke it. The wood-nymph is very strictly preserved."
Rose smiled; for though she did not know what a wood-nymph was, she knew
that Mr. Tanqueray was looking at her all the time.
"The wood-nymphs always dress in green and brown."
"Like me?"
"Like you. Only they don't wear boots" (Rose hid her boots), "nor yet
collars."
"You wouldn't like to see me without a collar."
"I'd like to see you without that hat."
Any difficulty in taking Rose about with him would lie in Rose's hat. He
could not say what was wrong with it except that the roses in it were
too red and gay for Rose's gravity.
"Would you mind taking it off?"
She took it off and put it in her lap. Surrendered as she was, she could
not disobey. The eternal spell was on her.
Tanqueray removed her hat gently and hid it behind him. He laid his
hands in her lap. It was deep delight to touch her. She covered his
hands with hers. That was all he asked of her and all she thought of
giving.
On all occasions which she was prepared for, Rose was the soul of
propriety and reserve. But this, the great occasion, had come upon her
unaware, and Nature had her will of her. Through Rose she sent out the
sign and signal that he waited for. And Rose became the vehicle of that
love which Nature fosters and protects; it was visible and tangible, in
her eyes, and in her rosy face and in the naif movements of her hands.
Sudden and swift and fierce his passion came upon him, but he only lay
there at her feet, holding her hands, and gazing into her face, dumb,
like any lover of her class.
Then Rose lifted her hands from his and spoke.
"What have you done with my hat?"
In that moment he had turned and sat on it.
Deliberately, yet impulsively, and without a twinge of remorse, he had
sat on it. But not so that Rose could see him.
"I haven't done anything _with_ it," said he, "I couldn't do anything
with a hat like that."
"You've 'idden it somewhere."
He got up slowly, feigning a search, and produced what a minute ago had
been Rose's hat.
It was an absurd thing of wire and net, Rose's hat, and it had collapsed
irreparably.
"Well, I declare, if you haven't gone and sat on it."
"It looks as if I had. Can you forgive me?"
"Well--if it was an accident."
He looked down upon her tenderly.
"No, Rose, it was not an accident. I couldn't bear that hat."
He put his hand on her arm and raised her to her feet.
"And now," he said, "the only thing we can do is to go and get another
one."
They went slowly back, she shamefaced and bareheaded, he leading her by
the arm till they found themselves in Heath Street outside a magnificent
hat-shop.
Chance took him there, for Rose, interrogated on the subject of
hat-shops, was obstinately reticent.
But here, in this temple, in its wonderful window, before a curtain, on
a stage, like actors in a gay drama, he saw hats; black hats and white
hats; green and blue and rose-coloured hats; hats of all shapes and
sizes; airily perched; laid upon velvet; veiled and unveiled;
befeathered and beflowered. Hats of a beauty and a splendour before
which Rose had stood many a time in awful contemplation, and had hurried
past with eyes averted, leaving behind her the impermissible dream.
And now she had a thousand scruples about entering. He had hit, she
said, on the most expensive shop in Hampstead. Miss Kentish wouldn't
think of buying a hat there. No, she wouldn't have it. He must please,
please, Mr. Tanqueray, let her buy herself a plain straw and trim it.
But he seized her by the arm and drew her in. And once in there was no
more use resisting, it only made her look foolish.
Reality with its harsh conditions had vanished for a moment. It was like
a funny dream to be there, in Madame Rodier's shop, with Mr. Tanqueray
looking at her as she tried on innumerable hats, and Madame herself,
serving her, putting the hats on the right way, and turning her round
and round so that Mr. Tanqueray could observe the effect from every side
of her.
Madame talked all the time to Mr. Tanqueray and ignored Rose.
Rose had a mortal longing for a rose-coloured hat, and Madame wouldn't
let her have it. Madame, who understood Mr. Tanqueray's thoughts better
than if he had expressed them, insisted on a plain black hat with a
black feather.
"That's madame's hat, sir," said Madame. "We must keep her very simple."
"We must," said Tanqueray, with fervour. He thought he had never seen
anything so enchanting in its simplicity as Rose's face under the broad
black brim with its sweeping feather.
Rose had to wear the hat going home. Tanqueray carried the old one in a
paper parcel.
At the gate of the corner house he paused and looked at his watch.
"We've half-an-hour yet before we need go in. I want to talk to you."
He led her through the willows, and up the green slope opposite the
house. There was a bench on the top, and he made her sit on it beside
him.
"I suppose," he said, "you think that when we go in I shall let you wait
on me, and it'll be just the same as it was before?"
"Yes, sir. Just the same."
"It won't, Rose, it can't. You may wait on me to-night, but I shall go
away to-morrow."
She turned her face to him, it was dumb with its trouble.
"Oh no--no, sir--don't go away."
"I must. But before I go, I want to ask you if you'll be my wife----"
The hands she held clasped in her lap gripped each other tight. Her
mouth was set.
"I'm asking you now, Rose. To be my wife. My wife," he repeated
fiercely, as if he repelled with violence a contrary suggestion.
"I can't be your wife, sir," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because," she said simply, "I'm not a lady."
At that Tanqueray cried, "Ah," as if she had hurt him.
"No, sir, I'm not, and you mustn't think of it."
"I shall think of nothing else, and talk of nothing else, until you say
yes."
She shook her little head; and from the set of her chin he was aware of
the extreme decision of her character.
He refrained from any speech. His hand sought hers, for he remembered
how, just now, she had unbent at the holding of her hand.
But she drew it gently away.
"No," said she. "I look at it sensible. I can see how it is. You've been
ill, and you're upset, and you don't know what you're doin'--sir."
"I do--madam."
She smiled and drew back her smile as she had drawn back her head. She
was all for withdrawal.
Tanqueray in his attempt had let go the parcel that he held. She seized
it in a practical, business-like manner which had the perfect touch of
finality. Then she rose and went back to the house, and he followed her,
still pleading, still protesting. But Rose made herself more than ever
deaf and dumb. When he held the gate open for her she saw her advantage,
darted in, and vanished (his divinity!) down the area steps.
She went up-stairs to her little garret, and there, first of all, she
looked at herself in the glass. Her face was strange to her under the
black hat with its sweeping feather. She shook her head severely at the
person in the glass. She made her take off the hat with the feather and
put it by with that veneration which attends the disposal of a best hat.
The other one, the one with the roses, she patted and pulled and
caressed affectionately, till she had got it back into something of the
shape it had been, to serve for second best. Then she wished she had
left it as it was.
She loved them both, the new one because he had given it her, and the
old one because he had sat on it.
Finally she smoothed her hair to an extreme sleekness, put on a clean
apron and went down-stairs.
In the evening she appeared to Tanqueray, punctual and subservient,
wearing the same air of reticence and distance with which she had waited
on him first. He was to see, it seemed to say, that she was only little
Rose Eldred, his servant, to whom it was not proper that he should
speak.
But he did speak. He put his back to the door she would have escaped by,
and kept her prisoned there, utterly in his power.
Rose, thus besieged, delivered her ultimatum.
"Well," she said, "you take a year to think it over sensible."
"A year?"
"A year. And if you're in the same mind then as you are now, p'raps I
won't say no."
"A year? But in a year I may be dead."
"You come to me," said Rose, "if you're dyin'."
"And you'll have me then?" he said savagely.
"Yes. I'll 'ave you then."
But, though all night Tanqueray by turns raged and languished, it was
Rose who, in the morning, looked about to die. Not that he saw her. He
never saw her all that day. And at evening he listened in vain for her
call at the gate, her salutation to the night: "Min--Min--Minny!
Puss--Puss--Puss!"
For in the afternoon Rose left the house, attended by her uncle, who
carried by its cord her little trunk.
In her going forth she wore a clean white linen gown. She wore, not the
Hat, nor yet the sad thing that Tanqueray had sat on, but a little black
bonnet, close as a cap, with a black velvet bow in the front, and black
velvet strings tied beneath her chin.
It was the dress she had worn when she was nurse in a gentleman's
family.
V
Late in the evening of that day, Tanqueray, as he sat in miserable
meditation, was surprised by the appearance of Mrs. Eldred. She held in
her hand Rose's hat, the hat he had given her, which she placed before
him on the table.
"You'll be good enough, sir," said Mrs. Eldred, "to take that back."
"Why should I take it back?" he replied, with that artificial gaiety
which had been his habitual defence against the approaches of Mrs.
Eldred.
"Because, it was all very well for you to offer Rose wot you did, sir,
and she'd no call to refuse it. But a 'at's different. There's meanin',"
said Mrs. Eldred, "in a 'at."
Tanqueray looked at the hat.
"Meaning? If you knew all the meaning there is in that hat, Mrs. Eldred,
you'd feel, as I do, that you knew _something_. Half the poetry that's
been written has less meaning in it than that hat. That hat fulfills all
the requirements of poetry. It is simple--extremely simple--and sensuous
and passionate. Yes, passionate. It would be impossible to conceive a
hat less afflicted with the literary taint. It stands, as I see it, for
emotion reduced to its last and purest expression. In short, Mrs.
Eldred, what that hat doesn't mean isn't worth meaning."
"If you'd explain _your_ meaning, sir, I should be obliged."
"I am explaining it. My meaning, Mrs. Eldred, is that Rose wore that
hat."
"I know she did, sir, and she 'adn't ought to 'ave wore it. I'm only
askin' _you_, sir, to be good enough to take it back."
"Take it back? But whatever should I do with it? I can't wear it. I
might fall down and worship it, but--No, I couldn't wear it. It would be
sacrilege."
That took Mrs. Eldred's breath away, so that she sat down and wheezed.
"Does Rose not know what that hat means?" he asked.
"No, sir. I'll say that for her. She didn't think till I arst her."
"Then--I think--you'd perhaps better send Rose to me."
"Sir?"
"Please send her to me. I want her."
"And you may want her, sir. Rose isn't here."
"Not here? Where is she? I must see her."
"Rose is visitin' in the country, for her 'ealth."
"Her health? Is she ill?"
Mrs. Eldred executed a vast gesture that dismissed Rose.
"Where is she?" he repeated. "I'll go down and see her."
"You will not, sir. Her uncle wouldn't hear of it."
"But, by God! he shall hear of it."
He rang the bell with fury.
"It's no use your ringin', sir. Eldred's out."
"What have you done this for?"
"To get the child out of harm's way, sir. We're not blamin' you, sir.
We're blamin' 'er."
"Her? Her?"
"Properly speakin', we're not blamin' anybody. We're no great ones for
blamin', me and Eldred. But, if you'll excuse my sayin' so, sir, there's
a party would be glad of your rooms next month, a party takin' the 'ole
'ouse, and if you would be so good as to try and suit yourself
elsewhere----Though we don't want to put you to no inconvenience, sir."
It was extraordinary, but the more Mrs. Eldred's meaning was offensive,
the more her manner was polite. He reflected long afterwards that,
really, a lady, in such difficult circumstances, could hardly have
acquitted herself better.
"Oh, is that all? I'll go. But you'll give me Rose's address."
"You leave Rose alone, sir. Rose's address don't concern you."
"Rose's address concerns me a good deal more than my own, I can tell
you. So you'd better give it me."
"Look 'ere, sir. Are you actin' honest by that girl, or are you not?"
"What the devil do you mean by asking me that?"
His violence made her immense bulk tremble; but her soul stood firm.
"I dessay you mean no 'arm, sir. But we can't 'ave you playin' with 'er.
That's all."
"Playing with her? Playing?"
"Yes, playin'. Wot else is it? You know, sir, you ain't thinkin' of
marryin' 'er."
"That's just what I am thinking of."
"You 'aven't told _'er_ that."
"I _have_ told her. And, by Heaven! I'll do it."
"You mean that, sir?"
"Of course I mean it. What else should I mean?"
She sat meditating, taking it in slowly.
"You'll never make 'er 'appy, sir. Nor she you."
"She and I are the best judges of that."
"'Ave you spoke to 'er?"
"Yes. I told you I had."
"Not a word 'ave she said to _me_."
"Well, I dare say she wouldn't."
"Sir?"
"She wouldn't have me."
Mrs. Eldred's lower lip dropped, and she stared at Tanqueray.
"She wouldn't 'ave you? Then, depend upon it, that's wot made 'er ill."
"Ill?"
"Yes, ill, sir. Frettin', I suppose."
"Where's that address? Give it me at once."
"No, sir, I darsen't give it you. Eldred'd never forgive me."
"Haven't I told you I'm going to marry her?"
"I don't know, sir, as 'ow Rose'll marry _you_. When she's set, she's
set. And if you'll forgive my saying it, sir, Rose is a good girl, but
she's not in your class, sir, and it isn't suitable. And Rose, I dessay,
she's 'ad the sense to see it so."
"She's got to see it as I see it. That address?"
Mrs. Eldred rose heavily. She still trembled.
"You'd best speak to her uncle. 'E'll give it you if 'e approves. And if
'e doesn't 'e won't."
He stormed. But he was impotent before this monument of middle-class
integrity.
"When will Eldred be back?"
"We're expecting of 'im nine o'clock to-night."
"Mind you send him up as soon as he comes in."
"Very good, sir."
She paused.
"Wot am I to do with that 'at?"
He looked at her and at the hat. He laughed.
"You can leave the hat with me."
She moved slowly away. "Stop!" he cried; "have you got such a thing as a
band-box?"
"I think I might 'ave, sir; if I could lay my 'and on it."
"Lay your hand on it, then, and bring it to me."
She brought it. An enormous band-box, but brown, which was a good
colour. He lowered the hat into it with care and shut the lid on it,
reverently, as if he were committing some sacred emblem to its shrine.
He sat at his writing-table, tried to work and accomplished nothing. His
heart waited for the stroke of nine.
At nine there came to his summons the little, lean, brown man, Rose's
uncle. Eldred, who was a groom, was attired with excessive horsiness. He
refused to come further into the room than its threshold, where he stood
at attention, austerely servile, and respectfully despotic.
The interview in all points resembled Tanqueray's encounter with Mrs.
Eldred; except that the little groom, who knew his world, was even more
firmly persuaded that the gentleman was playing with his Rose.
"And we can't 'ave that, sir," said Eldred.
"You're not going to have it."
"No, sir, we ain't," reiterated Eldred. "We can't 'ave any such goin's
on 'ere."
"Look here--don't be an idiot--it isn't your business, you know, to
interfere."
"Not my business? When 'er father left 'er to me? I should like to know
what is my business," said Mr. Eldred hotly.
Tanqueray saw that he would have to be patient with him. "Yes, _I_ know.
_That's_ all right. Don't you see, Eldred, I'm going to marry her."
But his eagerness woke in Eldred a ghastlier doubt. Rose's uncle stood
firmer than ever, not turning his head, but casting at Tanqueray a
small, sidelong glance of suspicion.
"And _why_ do you want to marry her, sir? You tell me that."
Tanqueray saw.
"Because I want her. And it's the only way to get her. Do you need me to
tell you that?"