crimson, entirely in dull vermilion. The two shades might serve as
symbols of divine and earthly passion. Yet does one ask the martyr's
colour, you name it 'Red' (and briefly thus her garment): no
distinctive hue. The murderer and the prelate too may wear such robes
of office. Both are empowered to bless and ban.
My mood was reckless. I held my hands out, craving mercy. It was my
bitter lot to beg. My warring nature became unanimously suppliant,
heedless of the debt this soul might owe me--of the throes to which I
left it, and of the discreditable marks of mine it bore. Failure to
exact regard I did not entertain. I waited, with exhaustless
fortitude, the response to my appeal. Whence it came I know not. The
man and woman met my gaze with a void incorporate stare. The two faces
were merged into one avenging visage--so it seemed. I was excited. As
they turned towards the carriage waiting them, I heard a laugh,
mounting to a cry. It rang me to an outraged Temple. Sabbath bells
peal sweeter calls, as once this might have done.
I knew my part then in the despoiled body, with its soul's tapers long
blown out.
Wheels hastened to assail that sound, but it clanged all. Did it
proceed from some defeated angel? or the woman's mouth? or mine? God
knows!
Sat est scripsisse
By Austin Dobson
To E. G., with a Volume of Essays
When you and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,
And all our works immortal are scattered on the Stall,
It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,
Will find this present volume, and listless turn the page.
For him I write these Verses. And "Sir" (I say to him),
"This little Book you see here--this masterpiece of Whim,
Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),
Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.
"For they had worked together, been Comrades at the Pen;
They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;
But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart
The dreams, the aspirations, the 'dear delays' of Art.
"And much they talk'd of Metre, and more they talked of Style,
Of Form and 'lucid Order,' of labour of the File;
And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned,
(This all was long ago, Sir!) would read it to his Friend.
"They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star,
They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;
And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,--
They served the Muses truly, their service was sincere.
"This tattered page you see, Sir, is all that now remains
(Yes, fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;
And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,--
No Golden Book enrolls them among its 'Names of Note.'
"And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed,
They marched in that procession where is no first or last;
Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,
They, too, had once their ardour:--they handed on the fire."
Three Stories
By V., O., C.S.
I--Honi soit qui mal y pense
By C. S.
"But I'm not very tall, am I?" said the little book-keeper, coming
close to the counter so as to prevent me from seeing that she was
standing on tiptoe.
"A _p'tite_ woman," said I, "goes straight to my heart."
The book-keeper blushed and looked down, and began fingering a bunch
of keys with one hand.
"How is the cold?" I asked. "You don't seem to cough so much to-day."
"It always gets bad again at night," she answered, still looking down
and playing with her keys.
I reached over to them, and she moved her hand quickly away and
clasped it tightly with the other.
I picked up the keys:--"Store-room, Cellar, Commercial Room, Office,"
said I, reading off the names on the labels--"why, you seem to keep
not only the books, but everything else as well."
She turned away to measure out some whisky at the other window, and
then came back and held out her hand for the keys.
"What a pretty ring," I said; "I wonder I haven't noticed it before.
You can't have had it on lately."
She looked at me fearfully and again covered her hand.
"Please give me my keys."
"Yes, if I may look at the ring."
The little book-keeper turned away, and slipping quietly on to her
chair, burst into tears.
I pushed open the door of the office and walked in.
"What is it?" I whispered, bending over her and gently smoothing her
hair.
"I--I hate him!" she sobbed.
"Him?--Him?"
"Yes,--the--the ring man."
I felt for the little hand among the folds of the inky table-cloth,
and stooped and kissed her forehead. "Forgive me, dearest----"
"Go away," she sobbed, "go away. I wish I had never seen you. It was
all my fault: I left off wearing the ring on purpose, but he's coming
here to-day----and--and we are so many at home--and have so little
money----"
And as I went upstairs to pack I could see the little brown head bent
low over the inky table-cloth.
II--A Purple Patch
By O.
I
It was nearly half-past four. Janet was sitting in the drawing-room
reading a novel and waiting for tea. She was in one of those pleasing
moods when the ordinary happy circumstances of life do not pass
unnoticed as inevitable. She was pleased to be living at home with her
father and sister, pleased that her father was a flourishing doctor,
and that she could sit idle in the drawing-room, pleased at the pretty
furniture, at the flowers which she had bought in the morning.
She seldom felt so. Generally these things did not enter her head as a
joy in themselves; and this mood never came upon her when, according
to elderly advice, it would have been useful. In no trouble, great or
small, could she gain comfort from remembering that she lived
comfortably; but sometimes without any reason, as now, she felt glad
at her position.
When the parlour-maid came in and brought the lamp, Janet watched her
movements pleasurably. She noticed all the ways of a maid in an
orderly house: how she placed the lighted lamp on the table at her
side, then went to the windows and let down the blinds and drew the
curtains, then pulled a small table forward, spread a blue-edged cloth
on it, and walked out quietly, pushing her cuffs up a little.
She was pleased too with her novel, Miss Braddon's _Asphodel_. For
some time she had enjoyed reading superior books. She knew that
_Asphodel_ was bad, and saw its inferiority to the books which she had
lately read; but that did not prevent her pleasure at being back with
Miss Braddon.
The maid came in and set the glass-tray on the table which she had
just covered, took a box of matches from her apron pocket, lit the
wick of the silver spirit-stove and left the room. Janet watched the
whole proceeding with pleasure, sitting still in the arm-chair. Three
soft raps on the gong and Gertrude appeared. She made the tea, and
they talked. When they had finished, Gertrude sat at her desk and
began to write a letter, and still talking, Janet gradually let
herself into her novel once more. There was plenty of the story left,
she would read right on till dinner.
They had finished talking for some minutes when they heard a ring.
"Oh, Gerty, suppose this is a visitor!" Janet said, looking up from
her book.
Gertrude listened. Janet prayed all the time that it might not be a
visitor, and she gave a low groan as she heard heavy steps upon the
stairs. Gertrude's desk was just opposite the door, and directly the
maid opened it she saw that the visitor was an awkward young man who
never had anything to say. She exchanged a glance with Janet, then
Janet saw the maid who announced, "Mr. Huddleston."
And then she saw Mr. Huddleston. She laid her book down open on the
table behind her, and rose to shake hands with him.
Janet had one conversation with Mr. Huddleston--music: they were very
slightly acquainted, and they never got beyond that subject. She
smiled at the inevitableness of her question as she asked:
"Were you at the Saturday Afternoon Concert?"
When they had talked for ten minutes with some difficulty, Gertrude,
who had finished her letter, left the room: she was engaged to be
married, and was therefore free to do anything she liked. After a
visit of half an hour Huddleston went.
Janet rang the bell, and felt a little guilty as she took up the open
book directly her visitor had gone. She did not know quite why, but
she was dissatisfied. However, in a moment or two she was deep in the
excitement of _Asphodel_.
She read on for a couple of hours, and then she heard the carriage
drive up to the door. She heard her father come into the house and go
to his consulting-room, then walk upstairs to his bedroom, and she
knew that in a few minutes he would be down in the drawing-room to
talk for a quarter of an hour before dinner. When she heard him on the
landing, she put away her book; Gertrude met him just at the door;
they both came in together, and then they all three chatted. But
instead of feeling in a contented mood, because she had read
comfortably, as she had intended all the afternoon, Janet was
dissatisfied, as if the afternoon had slipped by without being
enjoyed, wasted over the exciting novel.
And towards the end of dinner her thoughts fell back on an old trouble
which had been dully threatening her. Gertrude was her father's
favourite; gay and pretty, she had never been difficult. Janet was
more silent, could not amuse her father and make him laugh, and he was
not fond of her. She would find still more difficulty when Gertrude
was married, and she was left alone with him. His health was failing,
and he was growing very cantankerous. She dreaded the prospect, and
already the doctor was moaning to Gerty about her leaving, and she was
making him laugh for the last time over the very cause of his
dejection. Not that he would have retarded her marriage by a day; he
was extremely proud of her engagement to the son of the great Lady
Beamish.
That thought had been an undercurrent of trouble ever since Gertrude's
engagement, and she wondered how she could have forgotten it for a
whole afternoon. Now she was as fully miserable as she had been
content four hours before, and her trouble at the moment mingled with
her unsatisfactory recollection of the afternoon, her annoyance at Mr.
Huddleston's interruption, and the novel which she had taken up
directly he had left the room.
II
A year after Gertrude's marriage Dr. Worgan gave up his work and
decided at last to carry out a cherished plan. One of his oldest
friends was going to Algiers with his wife and daughter. The doctor
was a great favourite with them; he decided to sell his house in
London, and join the party in their travels. The project had been
discussed for a long time, and Janet foresaw an opportunity of going
her own way. She was sure that her father did not want her. She had
hinted at her wish to stay in England and work for herself; but she
did not insist or trouble her father, and as he did not oppose her she
imagined that the affair was understood. When the time for his
departure drew close, Janet said something about her arrangements
which raised a long discussion. Dr. Worgan expressed great
astonishment at her resolution, and declared that she had not been
open with him. Janet could not understand his sudden opposition;
perhaps she had not been explicit enough; but surely they both knew
what they were about, and it was obviously better that they should
part.
They were in the drawing-room. Dr. Worgan felt aggrieved that the
affair should be taken so completely out of his hands; he had been
reproaching her, and arguing for some time. Janet's tone vexed him.
She was calm, disinclined to argue, behaving as if the arrangement
were quite decided: he would have been better pleased if she had cried
or lost her temper.
"It's very easy to say that; but, after all, you're not independent.
You say you want to get work as a governess; but that's only an excuse
for not going away with me."
"You never let me do anything for you."
"I don't ask you to. I never demand anything of you. I'm not a tyrant;
but that's no reason why you should want to desert me; you're the last
person I have."
Janet hated arguments and talk about affairs which were obviously
settled. They had talked for almost an hour, they could neither of
them gain anything from the conversation, and yet her father seemed to
delight in prolonging it. She did not wish to defend her course. She
would willingly have allowed her father to put her in the wrong, if
only he had left her alone to do what both of them wanted.
"You want to pose as a kind of martyr, I suppose. Your father hasn't
treated you well, he only loved your sister; you've a grievance
against him."
"No, indeed; you know it's not so."
The impossibility of answering such charges, all the unnecessary
fatigue, had brought her very near crying: she felt the lump in her
throat, the aching in her breast. Be a governess? Why, she would
willingly be a factory girl, working her life out for a few shillings
a week, if only she could be left alone to be straightforward. The
picture of the girls with shawl and basket leaving the factory came
before her eyes. She really envied them, and pictured herself walking
home to her lonely garret, forgotten and in peace.
"But that's how our relations and friends will look upon your
conduct."
"Oh no," she answered, trying to smile and say something amusing after
the manner of Gertrude; "they will only shake their heads at their
daughters and say, 'There goes another rebel who isn't content to be
beautiful, innocent, and protected.'"
But Janet's attempts to be amusing were not successful with her
father.
"They won't at all. They'll say, 'At any rate her father is well off
enough to give her enough to live upon, and not make her work as a
governess.'"
"_We_ know that's got nothing to do with it. If I were dependent, I
should feel I'd less right to choose----"
"But you're mistaken; that's not honesty, but egoism, on your part."
Janet had nothing to answer; there was a pause, as if her father
wished her to argue the point. She thought, perhaps, she had better
say something, else she would show too plainly that she saw he was in
the wrong; but she said nothing, and he went on: "And what will people
say at the idea of your being a governess? Practically a servant in a
stranger's house, with a pretence of equality, but less pay than a
good cook. What will all our friends say?"
Janet did not wish to say to herself in so many words that her father
was a snob. If he had left her alone, she would have been satisfied
with the unacknowledged feeling that he attached importance to certain
things.
"Surely people of understanding know there's no harm in being a
governess, and I'm quite willing to be ignored by anyone who can't see
that."
These were the first words she spoke with any warmth.
"Selfishness again. It's not only your concern: what will your sister
think and feel about it?"
"Gerty is sensible enough to think as I do; besides, she is very
happy, and so has no right to dictate to other people about their
affairs; indeed, she won't trouble about it--why should she? I'm not
part of her."
"You're unjust to Gertrude: your sister is too sweet and modest to
wish to dictate to any one."
"Exactly." Janet could not help saying this one word, and yet she knew
that it would irritate her father still more.
"And who would take you as a governess? You don't find it easy to live
even with your own people, and I don't know what you can teach.
Perhaps you will reproach me as Laura did her mother, and say it was
my fault you didn't go to Girton?"
"Oh, I think I can manage. My music is not much, I know; but I think
it's good enough to be useful."
"Are you going to say that I was wrong in not encouraging you to train
for a professional musician?"
"I hadn't the faintest notion of reproaching you for anything: it was
only modesty."
She knew that having passed the period when she might have cried, she
was being fatigued into the flippant stage, and her father hated that
above everything.
"Now you're beginning to sneer in your superior way," Dr. Worgan said,
walking up the room, "talking to me as if I were an idiot----"
He was interrupted by the maid who came in to ask Janet whether she
could put out the light in the hall. Janet looked questioningly at her
father, who had faced round when he heard the door open, and he said
yes.
"And, Callant," Janet cried after her, and then went on in a lower
tone as she reappeared, "we shall want breakfast at eight to-morrow;
Dr. Worgan is going out early."
The door was shut once more. Her father seemed vexed at the
interruption so welcome to her.
"Well, I never could persuade you in anything; but I resent the way in
which you look on my advice as if it were selfish--I'm only anxious
for your own welfare."
* * * * *
In bed Janet lay awake thinking over the conversation. She had an
instinctive dislike to judging any one, especially her father. Why
couldn't people who understood each other remain satisfied with their
tacit understanding, and each go his own way without pretence? She was
sure her father did not really want her, he was only opposing her
desertion to justify himself in his own eyes, trying to persuade
himself that he did love her. If he had just let things take their
natural course and made no objections against his better judgment, she
would not have criticised him; she had never felt aggrieved at his
preference for Gertrude: it so happened that she was not sympathetic
to him, and they both knew it. Over and over again as she lay in bed,
she argued out all these points with herself. If he had said, "You're
a good girl, you're doing the right thing; I admire you, though we're
not sympathetic," his humanity would have given her deep pleasure, and
they might have felt more loving towards each other than ever before.
Perhaps that was too much to expect; but at any rate he might have
left her alone. Anything rather than all this pretence, which forced
her to criticise him and defend herself.
But perhaps she had not given him a chance? She knew that every
movement and look of hers irritated him: if only she could have not
been herself, he might have been generous. But then, as if to make up
for this thought, she said aloud to herself:
"Generosity, logic, and an objection to unnecessary talking are manly
qualities." And then she repented for becoming bitter.
"But why must all the hateful things in life be defined and printed on
one's mind in so many words? I could face difficulties quite well
without being forced to set all the unpleasantnesses in life clearly
out. And this makes me bitter."
She was terribly afraid of becoming bitter. Bitterness was for the
failures, and why should she own to being a failure; surely she was
not aiming very high? She was oppressed by the horrible fear of
becoming old-maidish and narrow. Perhaps she would change gradually
without being able to prevent, without even noticing the change. Every
now and then she spoke her thoughts aloud.
"I can't have taking ways: some people think I'm superior and
crushing, father says I'm selfish;" and yet she could not think of any
great pleasures which she had longed for and claimed. Gerty had never
hidden her wishes or sacrificed anything to others, and she always got
everything she fancied; yet she was not selfish.
Then the old utter dejection came over her as she thought of her life;
if no one should love her, and she should grow old and fixed in
desolation? This was no sorrow at an unfortunate circumstance, but a
dejection so far-reaching that its existence seemed to her more real
than her own; it must have existed in the world before she was born,
it must have been since the beginning. The smaller clouds which had
darkened her day were forced aside, and the whole heaven was black
with this great hopelessness. If any sorrow had struck her, death,
disgrace, crime, that would have been a laughing matter compared with
this.
Perhaps life would be better when she was a governess; she would be
doing something, moulding her own life, ill-treated with actual wrongs
perhaps. In the darkness of her heaven there came a little patch of
blue sky, the hopefulness which was always there behind the cloud, and
she fell asleep, dreamily looking forward to a struggle, to real life
with possibilities--dim pictures.
III
A month afterwards, on a bitterly cold February day, Janet was
wandering miserably about the house. She was to start in a few days
for Bristol, where she had got a place as governess to two little
girls, the daughters of a widower, a house-master at the school. Her
father had left the day before. Janet could not help crying as she sat
desolately in her cold bedroom trying to concern herself with packing
and the arrangements for her journey. She was to dine that evening
with Lady Beamish, to meet Gerty and her husband and say good-bye. She
did not want to go a bit, she would rather have stayed at home and
been miserable by herself. She had, as usual, asked nothing of any of
her friends; she felt extraordinarily alone, and she grew terrified
when she asked herself what connected her with the world at all, how
was she going to live and why? What hold had she on life? She might go
on as a governess all her life and who would care? What reason had she
to suppose that anything would justify her living? From afar the
struggle had looked attractive, there was something fine and strong in
it; that would be life indeed when she would have to depend entirely
upon herself and work her way; but now that the time was close at
hand, the struggle only looked very bitter and prosaic. In her
imagination beforehand she had always looked on at herself admiringly
as governess and been strengthened by the picture. Now she was acting
to no gallery. Whatever strength and virtue there was in her dealing
met no one's approval; and all she had before her in the immediate
future was a horrible sense of loneliness, a dreaded visit, two more
days to be occupied with details of packing, a cab to the station, the
dull east wind, the journey, the leave-taking all the more exquisitely
painful because she felt that no one cared. The sense of being
neglected gave her physical pain all over her body until her
finger-tips ached. How is it possible, she thought, that a human being
in the world for only a few years can be so hopeless and alone?
In the cab on her way to Lady Beamish she began to think at once of
the evening before her. She tried to comfort herself with the idea of
seeing Gerty, sweet Gerty, who charmed every one, and what close
friends they had been! But the thought of Lady Beamish disturbed and
frightened her. Lady Beamish was a very handsome woman of sixty, with
gorgeous black hair showing no thread of white. She had been a great
beauty, and a beauty about whom no one could tell any stories; she had
married a very brilliant and successful man, and seconded him most
ably during his lifetime. Those who disliked her declared she was
fickle, and set too much value on her social position. Janet had
always fancied that she objected from the beginning to her second
son's engagement to Gertrude; but there was no understanding her, and
if Janet had been asked to point to some one who was radically
unsimple, she would at once have thought of Lady Beamish. She had been
told of many charming things which she had done, and she had heard her
say the sweetest things; but then suddenly she was stiff and
unforgiving. There was no doubt about her cleverness and insight; many
of her actions showed complete disregard of convention, and yet,
whenever Janet had seen her, she had always been lifted up on a safe
height by her own high birth, her dead husband's distinctions, her
imposing appearance, and hedged round by all the social duties which
she performed so well. Janet saw that Lady Beamish's invitation was
kind; but she was the last person with whom she would have chosen to
spend that evening. But here she was at the door, there was no escape.
Lady Beamish was alone in the drawing-room. "I'm very sorry, I'm
afraid I've brought you here on false pretences. I've just had a
telegram from Gertrude to say that Charlie has a cold. I suppose she's
afraid it may be influenza, and so she's staying at home to look after
him. And Harry has gone to the play, so we shall be quite alone."
Janet's heart sank. Gerty had been the one consoling circumstance
about that evening; besides, Lady Beamish would never have asked her
if Gerty had not been coming. How would she manage with Lady Beamish
all alone? She made up her mind to go as soon after dinner as she
could.
They talked about Gertrude; that was a good subject for Janet, and she
clung to it; she was delighted to hear Lady Beamish praise her warmly.