TRIXIE
It was sixteen years since the night of the ball in India when Mrs.
Greaves had twisted her ankle, and had sat on the dais with the wife of
a senior civilian discussing the unfortunate domestic affairs of Captain
and Mrs. Coventry.
Now Mrs. Greaves's husband was a retired colonel, and they were living
comfortably, if dully, within their means in a convenient suburb of
London, engrossed in the careers of their boys, content with their
surroundings, with their well-built villa, their well-trained maids,
their patch of garden and their neighbours--mostly staunch old Indian
friends.
Until lately Mrs. Munro, now for years a widow, had been one of these
neighbours, living quietly with Trixie her daughter at the end of the
Greaves's road in a little house called "Almorah." Hereabouts many of
the houses bore names reminiscent of India--rather pathetic links with a
past that some of the occupants frequently glorified into "happier
days," forgetting as frequently how they had pined for an English home
while living in exile. More or less unconsciously the little colony of
"old Indians" preserved among themselves various propensities acquired
during their service abroad. For example, they bought each others'
furniture, borrowed and loaned belongings with ready good nature, paid
informal visits chiefly in the mornings, quarrelled sometimes about
nothing, and were inclined to be exclusive outside their own circle.
They were all very happy and comfortable in spite of past glories,
whether real or imagined, and when Trixie Munro grew up and clamoured
for change, her godmother, Marion Greaves ("Gommie," as Trixie had
called her ever since she could talk), urged Ellen Munro to let well
alone and stay where she was--to pay no attention to Trixie's ridiculous
hankerings after a London flat.
"You can't afford the move, my dear," she had said with truth, "and the
sooner Trixie learns that other things matter besides her own whims the
better." Trixie and Gommie were more often at war than on terms of
peace.
However, persuasions and warnings failed, the obstacle being that the
mother's whole life was bound up in the child, and for Trixie to be
disappointed meant double distress for Mrs. Munro. Therefore the removal
from "Almorah" to the flat in West Kensington, which was all Mrs. Munro
could achieve on her income, had been accomplished in direct opposition
to Mrs. Greaves's concerned and strenuous advice.
Now, on a wet afternoon in January Mrs. Greaves was starting from her
suburban home to have tea in "Mulberry Mansions, West Kensington, W.,"
with Ellen Munro. Though her once crisp chestnut hair was faded and
grey, and her sharp little face had lost its freshness and its
freckles--no longer could she claim to be called "The Plover's Egg"--she
had kept her health and her trimness of figure, and had lost none of her
practical, vigorous grip on existence.
She selected an umbrella--not her best--from the stand in the hall, and
opened the front door. A cold, wet wind blew into her face; the outlook
was not encouraging, and the walk to the station would hardly be
pleasant in such horrible weather. But with her usual determination she
closed the door firmly behind her, giving it a pull to make sure it was
shut, and set off in the wind and the rain undaunted. She trudged down
the hill, traversed a long stretch of road bounded chiefly by boards
that advertised plots of "desirable" land for building, and arrived at
the tram-riddled town. On the way to the station, she entered a flower
shop and purchased a large bunch of violets.
When she emerged from the underground railway station into the muddy
London street, she had to wrestle with the second-best umbrella that
endeavoured to turn inside out. It was a ten minutes' walk to the
Munros' little flat, and that she was carrying the large bunch of
violets in a paper cone added to her difficulties in the wind and the
rain; but she was wearing an old coat and skirt, and she felt it would
be an unnecessary extravagance to take a cab. Ellen Munro would provide
shoes and stockings while her own were being dried in the kitchen. She
knew that Ellen was at home only to herself on the periodical occasions
when she came up from the suburb for tea and a talk over old times.
The cold and the wet and the gloom of this January day had not deterred
her from the expedition, for Ellen Munro had written to say she had an
important communication to impart to her old friend, and, as a human
being as well as an old friend, Marion Greaves was agog to know the
news. She speculated as to what it could possibly be as she paddled
along the slippery pavement; in all probability it was something
connected with Trixie, and she wondered what the tiresome girl had been
doing now. Seeing that Trixie was her goddaughter, Mrs. Greaves felt she
was entitled to interfere when the child behaved more outrageously than
usual. She had always considered that Ellen Munro was not sufficiently
strict with the girl, allowing Trixie to be capricious and extravagant
and to do just as she chose! The result some day must certainly be
disastrous. What else could be expected when the mother was so weak and
indulgent, and the daughter so selfish and irresponsible? The modern
girl seemed to be a terrible problem, and Mrs. Greaves felt glad she had
only to think of two sons, who were shaping well and would soon be
supporting themselves.
She was thankful, presently, to find herself in the warm, though shabby,
little drawing-room that was pathetically embellished with Indian
relics--embroideries that were dulled with the London atmosphere, bits
of brass and Cashmere silverwork that the cook-general had no time to
clean, intricate carvings of scented wood, warped and dusty. She laid
her offering of violets on a chair, where it lay neglected in the little
bustle of greeting and the shedding of her wet shoes. She had bought the
flowers for Ellen, who had plenty of vases, though she could seldom fill
them, she could not afford niceties; every extra penny was needed for
Trixie, so that Trixie need not go ill-dressed among her young
friends--friends of whom Mrs. Munro inwardly disapproved, yet could not
refuse to acknowledge without unpleasantness with Trixie. Silly,
irresponsible boys and girls, who practically ignored Mrs. Munro when
they came to the flat, and made up parties with Trixie for second-rate
subscription dances, afternoons and evenings at skating rinks, tango
teas, river picnics, and so on. Trixie's mother strove to give her
daughter adequate pocket-money, so that taxi fares, gloves, sweets,
cigarettes should not become too acceptable from young men friends.
Soon the visitor's feet were dry and warm, the cook-general had at last
ceased to come in and out of the room, and the tea-kettle was boiling.
"Now," said Mrs. Greaves, "what is it?"
"Trixie is going to be married." Trixie's mother did not look at her old
friend as she spoke. She gazed into the fire, and there was a certain
defensiveness in her voice.
"Good gracious, my dear Ellen, why didn't you tell me in your letter?"
"You are the first person I have told," said Mrs. Munro evasively.
"Well, are you pleased? Who is he? Has he any money?"
"I suppose I am pleased, but he is so much older than Trixie." There was
a pause.
"Really, Ellen, considering we have known each other since we were
girls, I think you might be a little more anxious to tell me all about
it."
"I know I must seem horrid, but it has been worrying me rather, and I
hardly know yet what to feel or say."
"At any rate, tell me the man's name?" Mrs. Greaves regarded the worn,
white face of her friend with impatient anxiety. Incidentally, she
wished Ellen would leave off her mourning; she had been a widow for so
many years, and black had never suited her.
"It is Colonel Coventry," said Ellen, with an effort.
"Coventry? Surely not the man we knew in India--in the Barchesters?"
Mrs. Munro nodded, and there was silence between the two women, who were
both thinking of Trixie, aged nineteen, pretty, pleasure-loving, wilful,
as the wife of a man nearly thirty years her senior; a man, moreover,
who had been noted for his intolerance of feminine frailty, for his
almost puritanical views where the conduct of women was concerned. How
could such a marriage prove a success on either side?
"But, Ellen----" began Mrs. Greaves, and hesitated. Then she added
quickly: "Does Trixie know that he was married before, and that he
divorced his wife?"
"Yes; she doesn't seem to mind. She says it was all such a long time
ago. You know what Trixie is when she has made up her mind and wants to
do a thing."
"I know what girls are nowadays, and Trixie in particular," said Mrs.
Greaves rather tartly. "I suppose Colonel Coventry's first marriage must
seem prehistoric to her, but sixteen years to us is not so long ago. At
any rate, let us hope it will steady her to be married to a man old
enough to be her father."
Mrs. Munro's soft eyes filled with tears. She said in plaintive protest:
"You are always so hard on Trixie, Marion. There is no real harm in the
child. She only likes to enjoy herself in her own way."
"She will not be permitted to enjoy herself in her own way as Mrs.
Coventry, unless he has altered very much since I knew him. It will have
to be his way or nothing. Ellen, I should not like to see a girl of
mine, however well balanced, married to that man. I believe him to be
hard and unsympathetic. Remember how he behaved to his first wife, even
as a comparatively young man. The whole station blamed him."
"I was at home that year; it was after I took Trixie home; but I
remember hearing about the case. Surely Mrs. Coventry only got what she
deserved? How could he have done anything but divorce her when he found
out what she was?"
"My dear, I always doubted if there was anything to find out beyond
extreme foolishness, though appearances were certainly against her. I
knew her fairly well, and I never for one moment thought she had been
really bad. George Coventry was one of those men who are ready to
believe the worst about women, and who pose as saints themselves. Does
Trixie profess to be in love with him, may I ask?"
"She seems happy. He's very good-looking, and she admires him." Mrs.
Munro spoke helplessly. Then she reached behind her and took from a
small table a silver-framed photograph of a man in uniform--just the
head and shoulders--a stern, handsome face, with close-cropped grey hair
and grave, keen eyes.
Mrs. Greaves regarded it intently. "He has grown better-looking with
age," she remarked. "He looks like an elderly hero in a play. I dare say
he might take a young girl's fancy." As she handed the photograph back
to Ellen Munro she espied another photograph on the table, that of a
young man, cheerful, impudent, boyish.
"What will Guy say when he hears of Trixie's engagement, I wonder?"
"What should he say? There was nothing between him and Trixie, and never
could have been. They both knew that quite well."
"All the same, it is fortunate, perhaps, that she is not going to
India."
"But she _is_ going to India," said Mrs. Munro desperately. "George
takes up command of that battalion next month, and he wants Trixie to be
ready to go with him. She is quite willing."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Greaves significantly; and Trixie's mother sat
silent, in rueful understanding.
Guy Greaves, Colonel Greaves's nephew, was a subaltern in the battalion
of the Barchesters now serving in India, and it was through him,
indirectly, that Trixie had met the man she had promised to marry. Some
people might have imagined that she was more likely to marry the
subaltern than the colonel, until that youth left England, glum and
miserable; and there was one young man the less to go with Trixie and
her friends to teas and dances and theatres--outings he could ill
afford, "broke," as he had always declared himself, "to the world."
Presently Mrs. Munro said: "What could I do, except refuse my consent
until Trixie was of age? Of course, I had to consent. I felt I had no
right to raise objections that could only be indefinite. As you know, we
have nothing but our pensions, and it is a galling life to a girl of
Trixie's temperament. Colonel Coventry has private means, and his
character is unimpeachable. There are no drawbacks beyond his age and
his sad story."
Mrs. Munro's voice trembled; she was almost at the end of her endurance,
and she began to cry in the silent, helpless manner peculiar to women of
her down-trodden type. All her life she had been sacrificed to somebody;
first to her brother, who had been considered in every way before
herself; then to her husband's mother and sisters, since the greater
part of Mr. Munro's pay had gone home towards their support, and he had
died before he could save anything for his wife and child; and then to
Trixie, who had always had what she wanted as far as the widow's slender
means would permit, and of late had been "such a handful," to quote Mrs.
Greaves and various other of the mother's old friends.
The heart of Marion Greaves smote her. She had a genuine affection for
Ellen Munro--the affection that is born of custom and propinquity. They
had known each other for so many years, and had been through so much
together, and having no daughter of her own Marion was deeply, if
tiresomely, interested in Ellen's only girl. As Trixie's godmother she
felt doubly entitled to speak her mind on the subject of Trixie's
faults. She never hesitated to tell the girl she was vain and selfish
and rebellious; that, though it might be true she dusted the
drawing-room and darned her own stockings, she ought also to darn her
mother's, and help in the kitchen and bedrooms as well, not to speak of
making some sort of attempt to keep down current expenses, instead of
straining her mother's income to breaking point with her gaieties and
her clothes.
Unknown to Trixie, Mrs. Greaves had more than once helped Ellen through
a difficulty with a so-called loan, which was afterwards transformed
into a Christmas or a birthday present, despite Mrs. Munro's grateful
protests; and if, in return, Marion claimed the right to say what she
thought, Mrs. Munro felt that the least she could do was to submit
amiably to the raps of home truths. Trixie, however, was not so
accommodating, and when Mrs. Greaves was expected to tea she generally
contrived to have a pressing engagement elsewhere. Even the miserable
weather to-day had not inclined her to listen to her mother's
supplications that she should stay at home for once to see "Gommie."
"I have some regard for my nose," she had declared, "and I should
certainly get it bitten off altogether if I gave Gommie the chance this
afternoon."
Now, while Ellen Munro wept, Marion Greaves put more coal on the fire
and stirred up a cheerful blaze. She also pulled down the blinds and
drew the curtains.
"There," she said, "that's better. Have some more tea, Ellen," she added
remorsefully, "and don't mind what I say. I know as well as you do that
there's no real harm in the child. It's only a question if George
Coventry will realise it when she is his wife, and make allowances for
her youth and high spirits. If he manages her judiciously, I don't doubt
that she will respond, for I must own that, with all her faults, the
child has an honest nature. After all, you have done what seems to you
best, and nobody can do more. They must take their chance of
understanding each other. Only you ought to give Trixie a _good_ talking
to before she goes out to India." Mrs. Greaves felt torn between
sympathy for Ellen and apprehension for Trixie's future. "Now, what
about the trousseau? Of course, she gets a sum down for that from the
fund, which is a comfort, and I will give her a cheque to get what she
likes as my wedding present."
Mrs. Munro's affectionate expressions of gratitude were muffled by her
pocket handkerchief, but she soon allowed herself to be drawn into an
interesting discussion concerning Trixie's outfit for India, though both
ladies were well aware that they were not likely to be allowed much say
in the matter.
Covertly Mrs. Greaves glanced at the clock. If she left at once she
would be home in good time for dinner; if she stayed a little longer she
would miss the next train, but she might see Trixie. Mrs. Munro was
oblivious of the time; she was looking happier, more alive, and she
described the engagement ring which George had brought in his pocket
yesterday. Such lovely diamonds; and he was going to give Trixie a
pendant, and all sorts of other delightful things.
Mrs. Greaves very nearly said: "I wonder what became of his presents to
the first Mrs. Coventry?" but she refrained, and the next moment the
door was opened and Trixie came in, followed by Colonel Coventry.
Even "Gommie" was struck silent by the girl's beauty. She looked so
vivid, so radiant, fresh from the cold and the wet outside, though her
hat was crammed on to her neck, which raised the ire of Mrs. Greaves.
"Such shocking style!" she commented inwardly. Then she looked beyond
Trixie to the man who was to be the girl's husband, and found herself
forced to admit that, despite the difference in their ages, they made a
handsome and unusual pair. Colonel Coventry was obviously devoted, and
Trixie looked elated. She introduced "George" to "Gommie" with scarcely
concealed pride and triumph.
A shadow crossed the man's face when Mrs. Greaves claimed him as an old
acquaintance.
"I remember you very well," she said, "years ago in India. You have not
been back there since those days, have you?"
"No," he answered shortly.
Mrs. Munro fluttered to the rescue. "Mrs. Greaves's nephew, Guy Greaves,
is in your regiment, you know, George. It was through him, somehow, that
you came across Trixie, wasn't it?"
"I believe I owe him that debt," he said, smiling; "and no doubt I shall
be expected to remember it when he wants leave out of his turn."
They all laughed rather artificially, and Mrs. Greaves remarked how
curious it was that most people who had been in India found themselves
linked up in some way or another.
"Your future mother-in-law and I are such very old friends, and now you
are going to marry my goddaughter, and there is Guy in your regiment. It
all goes round in a circle."
Then she looked at the clock. "Well, I must be going, or I shall miss my
train. Trixie, my dear, I hope you will be very happy and that you will
try to be a good wife."
"Oh, Gommie, don't be so depressing. Do say for a change that you hope
George will make a good husband. That is much more to the point. How
could I be happy if he should turn out to be a tyrant, and beat and
ill-use me? You know, they say it doesn't matter who you marry, because
you are sure to find out afterwards that you have married somebody
else."
Mrs. Greaves, regarding her with godmotherly affection, as well as with
disapproval, thought of the night at the railway station in India, such
years ago, when Trixie had laughed and chattered and danced up and down
at the window of the compartment, grabbing her toy, while her parents
were breaking their hearts in farewell. Then she was only a baby and
could not be blamed for her callousness; yet now at nineteen she seemed
almost as heartless!
"I am sure," said Mrs. Greaves dryly, "that it will be your own fault if
he does beat you, and that you will richly deserve it."
"Help!" cried Trixie.
Mrs. Greaves addressed herself to Mrs. Munro. "Now, Ellen, may I go into
the kitchen and put on my own shoes and stockings? They must have been
dry long ago. I only trust your maid has not allowed them to scorch."
The two ladies left the room, and Trixie looked at herself
appreciatively in the mirror over the mantelpiece and hummed a gay tune.
"Gommie is a cat," she said carelessly. "She thinks I am a sort of
she-devil, and I am sure she was longing to tell you dreadful things
about my frivolity, and want of heart, and my general wickedness."
There was no response, and she turned to see George Coventry regarding
her with serious eyes.
"Perhaps she would also tell you that I was hard, and cold, and
intolerant," he said brusquely.
"Well, if you are I shall come home again, and enjoy myself as a grass
widow," she laughed.
"Trixie!" he protested; and her youth, her sweetness, her bright eyes
overcame him, rendered him weak and fatuous. He caught her in his arms
and kissed her passionately; she submitted with a sort of gracious
triumph. He released her reluctantly. "I wonder," he said, "if I am
doing wrong in taking you? My life is half over, yours is only just
beginning. You have no experience, and mine has been a hard one. Do you
know, child, that I swore I would never believe in a woman again? And
then you came and conquered, and made me feel I had everything left to
live for if you would be my wife. Trixie"--his voice held an agony of
doubt--"you won't fail me? You will keep alive my new-found faith? You
will be a true and loving wife?"
She quailed a little at his vehemence, as though she had a sudden
glimpse of something far more deep and serious than had yet come within
her knowledge.
"I will try," she faltered, half-frightened. Then her gay spirit
reasserted itself. "But you are not going to expect me to stay at home
and mend your socks and sew on your buttons the _whole_ time, are you? I
may go to dances, and join in theatricals, and ride, and play tennis,
and enjoy myself now and then, mayn't I?" She looked at him
mischievously.
He sighed rather hopelessly. "I'm too old for you, Trixie. I don't
dance, and I can't act, though I certainly can ride and play tennis. I
must confess I prefer staying at home to going out in the evening,
though it will be a different matter now, altogether, going out with
you."
"Oh, you shan't be dragged forth when you don't want to go," she said,
with mock encouragement. "Guy Greaves can always take me if you don't
feel inclined to turn out. I've known Guy since we were both children.
He's a dear boy, and he does dance so well. He had tango lessons when he
was at home last summer, and he picked it up at once."
George Coventry's face darkened. "No other man will take you out while
_I_ am your husband!" he said violently.
"Oh, George, are you going to be jealous?" she cried in genuine
consternation.
"I shall not be jealous unless you give me cause," he said heatedly.
"But I have no intention of playing the rôle of the complaisant husband,
if that is what you mean."
"Oh, don't look so horrid and ogreish. If you can't trust me, you had
better say so at once. If you imagine I am capable of doing anything
that isn't cricket, we'd better agree to end our engagement. But I
thought"--her voice broke and tears rose in her eyes--"I thought you
really cared for me, and wanted me to be your wife and not your slave."
She turned from him to conceal her tearful annoyance and agitation.
Instantly he was all remorse and repentance. "What a brute I am! Trixie,
darling, do try to understand. It's only because I love you so deeply,
so truly, that I can't bear to think of your having even a pleasure that
I can't share with you. I want all of you, Trixie, all your confidence
and your thoughts, and your moods and your companionship. My life would
be impossible now without you."
She responded generously. "I know you didn't mean to be beastly," she
said, smiling her forgiveness at him. "You must take me as I am or leave
me. And don't forget that I am taking you as you are, too, cross old
patch." She gave him a flippant little kiss on his chin.
Then, with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, she noticed the
paper cone filled with violets that had been left on a chair and
forgotten by her mother and Mrs. Greaves in the engrossment of their
converse.
"Oh, delicious things!" She took them up and smelt them, then held them
out to Colonel Coventry. "How sweet they are! Don't you love violets? Do
violets grow in India, George?"
He recoiled from the fragrance as though it were some poisonous odour.
"I can't endure them," he said shortly.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Mrs. Greaves was on her way, in the rain and the wind, to the
station. "If history doesn't repeat itself," she was reflecting in
anxious forebodement, "I shall be very thankful, but very much
surprised."
When she got home she informed her husband that Ellen Munro was even a
greater fool than she had always believed her to be.
"What has she been doing now?" he inquired, without particular interest.
"She has allowed Trixie to get engaged to that Coventry man we knew a
hundred years ago in India. He is old enough to be her father, and he
divorced his wife for nothing, and never bothered himself afterwards as
to what became of her when the other man didn't marry her."
"Coventry? But he wasn't at all a bad sort of fellow!" said Colonel
Greaves. "As straight as they make 'em, and such a good shot, if that is
the man you mean. I remember his wife. Now _she_ was a fool, if you
like; he was far too good for her."
"You men always stick up for each other," protested his wife. "No doubt
you are as ready to praise that horrible man who ruined poor Mrs.
Coventry's life. I can't remember his name at this moment."
Colonel Greaves wisely made no reply.