'No, it wasn't on account of you.'
The conversation paused. At last Harold said:
'Are you as indisposed as ever towards marriage? If Alfred were to
propose again would you have him?'
'I really don't know. Do you want me to marry? I'm not very pleasant
company, I'm well aware of that.'
'You know that I didn't mean that, Mildred. I don't want to press you
into any marriage. I've always wished you to do what you like.'
'And I have done so.'
'I still want you to do what you like. But I can't forget that if I
were to die to-morrow you would be practically alone in the world--a
few cousins----'
'But what makes you think of dying? You're in as good health as ever.'
'I'm forty-three, and father died when he was forty-eight. He died of
heart disease; I have suffered from my heart, so it is not probable
that I shall make very old bones. If I were to die, you would inherit
everything. What would become of this place--of this business? Isn't
it natural that I should wish to see you settled in life?'
'You think that Alfred would be a suitable match? Would you like to
see me marry him?'
'There's nothing against him; he's not very well off. But he's got on
while you've been away. He's making, I should say now, at least 500
pounds a year. That isn't much, but to have increased his income from
three to five hundred a year in five years proves that he is a steady
man.'
'No one ever doubted Alfred's steadiness.'
'Mildred, it is time to have done with those sneers.'
'I suppose it is. I suppose what you say is right. I've been from
pillar to post and nothing has come of it. Perhaps I was only fitted
for marriage after all.'
'And for what better purpose could a woman be fitted?'
'We won't discuss that subject,' Mildred answered. 'If I'm to marry
any one, as well Alfred as another.'
It was the deeper question that perplexed: Could she accept marriage
at all? And in despair she decided that things must take their chance.
If she couldn't marry when it came to the point, why, she couldn't; if
she married and found marriage impossible, they would have to
separate. The experience might be an unpleasant one, but it could not
be more unpleasant than her present life which was driving her to
suicide. Marriage seemed a thing that every one must get through; one
of the penalties of existence. Why it should be so she couldn't think!
but it was so. Marriage was supposed to be for ever, but nothing was
for ever. Even if she did marry, she felt that it would not be for
ever. No; it would not be for ever. Further into the future she could
not see, nor did she care to look. She remembered that she was not
acting fairly towards Alfred. But instead of considering that
question, she repelled it. She had suffered enough, suffering had made
her what she was; she must now think of herself. She must get out of
her present life; marriage might be worse, but it would be a change,
and change she must have. Things must take their course, she did not
know whether she would accept or refuse: but she was sure she would
like him to propose. He had loved her, and, as he had not married, it
was probable that he still loved her, anyway she would like to find
out.
He interested her, yes, in a way, for she no longer understood him.
Five years are a long while; he was practically a new man; and she
wondered if he had changed as much as she. Perhaps he hated her.
Perhaps he had forgiven her. Perhaps she was indifferent to him.
Perhaps his conventional politeness was the real man. Perhaps no real
man existed underneath it. In that case the pursuit would not prove
very exciting. But she did not think that this was so. She remembered
certain traits of character, certain looks.
Thinking of Alfred carried her back to the first years of her
girlhood. She was only eighteen when she first met him. He was the
first man who had kissed her, and she had lain awake thinking of
something which his sister Edith had told her. Edith knew that she did
not love a man to whom she was engaged, because when he kissed her his
kiss did not thrill her. Alfred's kiss had not thrilled, so far as
Mildred could make out. But she had admired his frock coat, his
gloves, and his general bearing had seemed to her most gentlemanly,
not to say distinguished. She had felt that she would never feel
ashamed of him; his appearance had flattered her girlish vanity, and
for nearly two years they had been engaged. She remembered that she
had not discovered any new attractions about him; he had always
remained at the frock coat and the gloves stage; she remembered that
she had, on more than one occasion, wearied of his society and
suspected that there was little in him. They had nevertheless very
nearly been married when she was twenty. But Harold had always been
opposed to the match, and at the bottom of her heart she had never
cared much about it. If she had, she would have married him then...
The first stirring influence that had entered into her life was Mrs.
Fargus. She could trace everything back to Mrs. Fargus. Mrs. Fargus
had awakened all that lay dormant in her desire of self-realisation,
and, although Mrs. Fargus had not directly impugned marriage, she had
said enough to make her understand that it were possible to rebel
against marriage; and that in proclaiming antipathy to marriage she
would win admiration, and would in a measure distinguish herself.
And, with the first discovery of a peculiarity of temperament, Mildred
had grown intensely interested in herself; she remembered how day by
day she had made new discoveries in herself, how she had wondered at
this being which was she. Her faults at all times had especially
interested her. She remembered how frightened, how delighted she had
been, when she discovered that she was a cruel woman. She had not
suspected this till the day she sat in the garden listening to
Alfred's reproaches and expostulations. She had thrilled at the
thought that she could make a man so unhappy. His grief was wonderful
to witness, and involuntary remarks had escaped her admirably designed
to draw it forth, to exhibit it; she was sorry for him, but in the
background of her mind she could not help rejoicing; the instinct of
cruelty would not be wholly repressed. But once the interview over,
she had thought very little of him; there was little in his nature to
attract hers; nothing beyond the mere antagonism of opposites--he was
straightforward and gross, she was complex and artificial.
But, in her relations with Ralph, there had been sympathy and
affection, she had felt sorry that she would not marry him, and his
death had come as a painful shock which had affected her life. She had
not been able to grieve for him as violently as she would have liked,
but she retained a very tender memory. Tears sometimes rose to her
eyes when she thought of him, and that past in the National Gallery
and in St. James' Park. For the sentiment of love, if not its
realisation was largely appreciated by Mildred, and that a man should
choose and, failing to obtain, should reject all else as inadequate,
was singularly attractive to her. All the tenderness that her nature
was capable of had vented itself in Ralph; he had been so good to her,
so kind, so unquestioning; the time they had spent together had been
peaceful, and full of gentle inspiration; she remembered and thought
of him differently from the others. His love had gratified her vanity,
but not grossly as Alfred's had done, there had been no feeling of
cruelty; she would have been glad to have made him happy; she would
have done so if she had been able.
But at that time all her energy, will, and all her desire of personal
fame were in art. She had striven on the thorny and rocky hill till
she could climb no more, and then had crept away to Barbizon anxious
to accept life unconditionally. But life, even as art, had been
refused to her. She could not live as others lived; she could only
enjoy in her way, and her way was not that of mankind. She had liked
Morton very dearly. She had felt pleasure in his conversation, in
himself, and, moved by the warmth of the night, she had been drawn to
his side, and, as they strayed along the grass grown paths and had
stooped under the mysterious darkness of the trees, she had taken his
arm affectionately, conscious of the effect upon him, but still taking
it from personal choice; and, as they leaned over the broken paling at
the bottom of the garden in front of the stars, it had pleased her
that he should put his arm round her, take her face in his hand and to
kiss her lips. The forest, too, the enchantment of the tall trees, and
the enigma of the moonlight falling through the branches and lighting
up the banks over which he helped her, had wrought upon her
imagination, upon her nerves, and there had been moments when she had
thought that she could love him as other women loved.
Perhaps she ought to have told no one. He was not altogether to blame,
and her eyes softened as she dwelt on the recollection.... It was not
his fault, nor her fault. She could not control her moods, and she was
not responsible for what she said and did when they were upon her. She
had felt that she must leave Barbizon, she had felt that she hated
artists and studios, and a force, which she could not resist, had
drawn her towards the Delacours. She remembered it all very well. She
did not blame Morton. She had acted wrongly, but it was fate. Looking
back she could honestly say that it was impossible for her to have
acted otherwise. Those moods of hers!
Delacour she had never cared about. He had made love to her, but she
had done nothing wrong. Madame Delacour knew that she had done nothing
wrong, and Mildred hated her for the accusation. 'She accused me of
kissing her husband,' Mildred reflected. Mildred often liked to look
the truth in the face, but, in this instance, the truth was unpleasant
to look in the face; she shrank from it, and excused herself. She was
at that time without hope, everything had gone wrong with her. She had
to have a friend.... Moreover, she had resolved to break off with M.
Delacour as soon as the Panama scandal had passed. But, owing to the
accusations of that odious woman, her life had suddenly fallen to
pieces. In two more years she would have mastered the French language,
and might have won some place for herself in literature.... But in
English she could do nothing. She hated the language. It did not suit
her. No, there was nothing for her now to do but to live at Sutton and
look after her brother's house or marry.... After all her striving she
found herself back at the point whence she had started; she had
accomplished the circle of life, or nearly so. To fulfil the circle
she had to marry. There was nothing in life except a little fruitless
striving, and then marriage. If she did not accept marriage, what
should she do? She was tired asking herself that question; so she put
it aside, and applied herself day by day with greater diligence to the
conquest of Alfred.
Their first letters were quite formal. But one day Alfred was
surprised by a letter beginning My dear Mr. Stanby. He asked himself
if the my was intentional or accidental, and, after some reflection,
began his letter 'My dear Miss Lawson.' A fortnight later he received
a letter without the first line of usual address. This seemed to him
significant, and he too omitted the first line, and in signing changed
the yours truly to yours always. They wrote to each other two or three
times a week, and Alfred had frequent appointments with Mildred. She
wished to consult him about various things, and made various pretexts
for asking him to come and see her. Her flirtations had hitherto been
conducted by the aid of books and pictures. But, in Alfred's case,
books and pictures were not possible pretexts; he knew nothing about
either, he played several instruments but could not talk music, and
her attempts to play his accompaniments seemed to estrange them.
Gardening and tennis she had to fall back upon, and tennis meant the
invitation of the young men and women of the neighbourhood, and this
did not coincide with Mildred's ideas; her flirtations were severely
private, she was not herself in the presence of many people. But she
had to make the best of things; and having set the young people of the
neighbourhood playing their game she walked about the grounds with
Alfred.
She had tried on several occasions to allude to the past, the
slightest allusion would precipitate a conclusion, and destroy the
sentiment of distrust that separated and rendered their companionship
uncomfortable. But Alfred persistently avoided all allusion to the
past. He was very attentive, and clearly preferred her to other girls,
but their conversation was strictly formal, and Mildred could not
account for this discrepancy. If he cared for her no longer, why did
he pay her so much attention. If he did care for her, why did he not
tell her so. The wall of formality with which he opposed her puzzled
and irritated her. Often she thought it would be well to abandon the
adventure, but at least, in her flirtations, she had not failed. She
recalled the number of her victims, the young poets who used to come
to see Helene; none had ever hesitated between them. She had only to
hold up her little finger to get any one of them away from Helene. It
was strange that Alfred remained cold; she knew he was not cold; she
remembered the storm of their interview when she broke off her
engagement five years ago.
He had grown stouter, he still wore a long black frock coat, and now
looked like a policeman. His commonplace good looks had changed to a
ponderous regularity of feature. But Alfred was instinctively a
gentleman, and he made no allusion to her painting that might lead
Mildred to suppose that he thought that she had failed. That a young
girl like Mildred should have chosen to live with such people as the
Delacours, worse still, to have wasted a large part of her fortune in
their shocking paper, was a matter which he avoided as carefully as
she would the Divorce Court, in the presence of a man whose wife has
just left him. As for marrying Mildred he didn't know what to think.
She was a pretty woman, and for him something of the old charm still
lingered. But his practical mind saw the danger of taking so flighty a
minded person into the respectability of a British home. He had loved
her, he still liked her, he didn't mind admitting that, but he was no
longer a fool about her. She had spent her money, nearly all of it,
and he couldn't afford to marry a fortuneless girl. She would be an
heiress if her brother died, and he might die at any moment, he
suffered from heart disease. Alfred liked Harold, and did not wish his
death, but if Harold did go off suddenly Alfred saw no reason why he
should not ask Mildred to marry him. He liked her as well as any other
girl; he thought he would make her a good husband, he would be able to
manage her better than any other man, he was sure of that, because he
understood her. She was a queer one: but he thought they'd get along
all right. But all this was in the future, so long as Harold lived
he'd keep on just as he was; if she met a man she liked better she
could have him. He had got on very well without her for the last five
years; there was no hurry, he could afford to wait if she couldn't.
She had thrown him over to go to Paris to paint; she had come back a
failure, and now she wanted him to marry, because it suited her
convenience. She could wait.
Sometimes his mood was gentler. 'If she did throw me over it wasn't
for any other fellow, she always had odd ideas. It was because she was
clever. I never cared for any girl as I did for her. By Jove, I think
I'd sooner marry her than any one else. I wish she hadn't spent all
her money on that damned socialistic paper.'
At the thought of the paper Alfred's face clouded, and he remembered
that Harold had gone into the house to get him a cigar: he was longing
for a smoke. Mildred was standing at a little distance talking to a
group of players who had just finished a set, and he was about to ask
her where her brother was, when he thought he would go and look for
Harold himself.
He passed up the lawn and entered the house by one of the bow windows.
He examined the pictures in the drawing-room, as do those to whom
artistic work conveys no sense of merit. 'He paid three hundred for
that at the Academy, I hear. It does not look much--a woman standing
by a tree. I suppose it is very good; it--must be good; but I think
one might find a better way of spending three hundred pounds. And that
landscape cost a hundred and fifty--a lake and a few rushes, not a
figure in it. I should have made the fellow put some figures in it,--
before I paid all that money. The frames are very handsome, I wonder
where that fellow has got to.... He must be worth six thousand a year,
people say eight, but I always make a rule to deduct. If he has six
thousand a year, he ought surely to give his only sister ten thousand
pounds. But that cigar--I am dying for a smoke. Where is he? What's he
doing all this while? I'll try the smoking-room.'
The door was open, and the first thing Alfred saw was Harold sitting
in a strange crumpled-up attitude on the sofa. He sat with his back to
the light, and the room was lit only by one window. But, even so,
Alfred could distinguish the strange pallor. 'Harold!' he called,--
'Harold!' Receiving no answer, he stepped forward hastily and took the
dead man by the shoulders. 'Harold!' The cold of the dead hand
answered him, and Alfred said, 'He's dead.'... Then afraid of mistake,
he shook the corpse and looked into the glassy eyes and the wide open
mouth. 'By Jove! He is dead, there can be no doubt. Heart disease. He
must have fallen just as he was opening the cigar-box. He was alive a
quarter of an hour ago. Perhaps he's not dead a couple of minutes.
Dead a couple of minutes or dead a thousand years, it is all the same.
I must call some one. I had better ring.' He laid his hand on the
bell, and then paused.
'I hadn't thought of that. She is an heiress now--she is, there's no
doubt. No one knows except me. No one saw me enter the house--no one;
I might slip out and propose to her. I know she will accept me. If I
don't propose now my chance will be lost, perhaps for ever. You can't
propose to a girl immediately after her brother's death, particularly
if his death makes her an heiress. Then, after the funeral, she may go
away. She will probably go to London. I wouldn't give two pence for my
chance. New influences! Besides, a girl with six thousand a year sees
things in a very different light to a girl who has nothing, or next to
nothing, even if it is the same girl. I shall lose her if I don't
propose now. By Jove! What a chance! If I could only get out of this
room without being seen! Hateful room! Curious place to choose to die
in. Appropriate too--dark, gloomy, like a grave. I won't have it as a
smoking-room. I'll put the smoking-room somewhere else. I wish that
butler would stop moving about and get back to his pantry. Gad,
supposing he were to catch me! I might be had up for murder. Awful! I
had better ring the bell. If I do, I shall lose six thousand a year. A
terrible game to play; but it is worth it. Here comes the butler.'
Alfred slipped behind the door and the servant passed up the passage
without entering the room.
'By heavens, what a fool I am! What have I done? If I had been caught
behind that door it would have gone hard with me. There would have
been nothing for it but to have told the truth; that having
accidentally found the brother dead, I was anxious to turn the
discovery to account by proposing to the sister. I daresay I would be
believed; improbable that I had murdered him. How still he does lie!
Suppose he were only shamming. Oh, he is dead enough. I wish I were
out of this room. Everything seems quiet now. I mustn't peep; I must
walk boldly out, and take my chance. Not a sound.'
Alfred walked into the wide passage. He avoided the boarded places,
selected the rugs and carpets to walk on, and so made his way into the
drawing-room, and hence on to the lawn. Then he slipped down a
secluded path, and returned to the tennis players from a different
side.
'Where have you been?'
'I went for a stroll round the grounds. I thought you would not like
my cigar, that was all.'
'Did Harold give you a cigar?'
'No, I have not seen him.'
'Let's go into the smoking-room and get one.'
'No, thank you, I really don't care to smoke. I'd sooner talk to you.'
'But you can do both.'
Alfred did not reply, and they walked down the pathway in silence.
'Good Heavens!' he thought, 'that cigar! If she insists on going to
the smoking-room! I must say something, or she'll want to go and fetch
a cigar. But I can't think of anything. How difficult it is to keep
one's wits about one after what has happened.'
'Do let me fetch you a cigar.'
'No, I assure you, Miss Lawson, that I do not want to smoke. Let's
play tennis.'
'Would you like to?'
'No, I don't think I should. I've no racquet, come for a walk
instead.'
'I'll lend you my racquet. You said you'd like to play with me.'
'So I should another time; but now come and walk round the garden with
me.'
'I am so sorry I can't; I have promised to play in this set; it will
look so rude if I leave my guests.'
'Never mind being rude; it won't matter for once. Do this for me.'
Mildred looked up wistfully; then she said:
'Ethel and Mary, do you play Mr. Bates and Miss Shield. I will play in
the next set; I am a little tired.'
The girls looked round knowingly, and Mildred and Alfred Stanby walked
towards the conservatories.