III.

Through the house in Grosvenor Street men were always coming and

going. Quite a number of men seemed to have acquired the right of

taking their meals there. When Lord Chadwick absented himself he

explained his enforced absence from the table; and Agnes noticed that

while Lord Chadwick addressed her mother openly as Olive, Mr. Moulton

did so surreptitiously, in a whisper, or when none but their intimate

friends were present. They rarely assembled less than six or seven to

lunch; after lunch they went to the drawing-room, and the eternal

discussion on the relations of the sexes was only interrupted by the

piano. St. Clare played better than Lord Chadwick, but Mrs. Lahens

preferred Lord Chadwick to accompany her. He followed her voice,

always making the most of it. At five o'clock the ladies had tea, very

often the men chose brandies and sodas; cigarettes were permitted, and

in these influences all the scandals of the fair ran glibly from the

tongue, and surprising were the imaginations of Mrs. Lahens'

scandalous brain.

The reserve that Agnes' innocence imposed on the wit of the various

narratives, and on the philosophy of the comments often became

painfully irksome, and on noticing Harding's embarrassments Mrs.

Lahens would suggest that Agnes went to her room. Agnes gladly availed

herself of the permission, and without the slightest admission to

herself that she hated the drawing-room. Such admission would be to

impugn her mother's conduct, and Agnes was far too good a little girl

to do that. She preferred to remember that she liked her own room: her

mother let her have a fire there all day; it was a very comfortable

room and she was never lonely when she was alone. She had her books,

and there were the dear sisters she had left, to think about. Besides,

she would meet the men again at dinner, so it would be just as well to

save her little store of conversation. She did not want to appear more

foolish and ignorant than she could help.

After dinner, Mrs. Lahens and Lilian Dare went off somewhere in a

hansom. They often went to the theatre. Sometimes Agnes went with

them. She had been twice to the theatre. She had been thrilled by a

melodrama and pleased by an operetta. But the rest of the party,

mother, Mr. Moulton, Lilian, and Mr. St. Clare had declared that both

pieces were very bad--very dull.

But they were all anxious to see a comedy about which every one was

talking; they were certain that they would be amused by it; and there

was some discussion whether Agnes should be taken. Agnes instantly

withdrew from the discussion. She did not care to go, she felt she was

not wanted, and she even suspected that she would not like the play.

So it was just as well that she was not going. But after dinner it was

decided that she was to go. Lord Chadwick was with them; Agnes had

never seen him more attentive to her mother, and Mr. St. Clare was

absorbed in Lilian. She had, Agnes heard her mother say, succeeded in

making him so jealous that he had asked her to marry him. But Mrs.

Lahens did not think that Lilian would marry him; nowadays girls in

society did not often marry their lovers; they knew that the qualities

that charm in a lover are out of place in a husband.

Agnes sat in the back of the box and wondered why Lilian's refusal to

marry St. Clare had made no difference in his affection, nor in hers;

they seemed as intimate as ever, and Agnes could hear them planning a

_rendezvous_. Lilian was going south, but St. Clare was to meet her in

Paris. Agnes wondered--a thought she did not like crossed her mind;

she put it instantly aside and bent her attention on the play.

There was a great deal in it that she did not understand, or that she

only understood vaguely. She did seem to wish to understand it. But

the others listened greedily, as well they might, for the conversation

on the stage was like the conversation in the Grosvenor Street

drawing-room, as like as if a phonograph was repeating it.

'I should not make such a fuss if I heard that my dear Major had---'

Agnes did not hear the rest of the sentence.

'If I were to revenge myself on you, Lilian.'

'You had better not.... Besides, there is nothing to revenge.'

'Isn't there,' said St. Clare, and his face grew suddenly grave.

'You are my first and you'll be my last,' Agnes heard her whisper, and

she saw St. Clare look at her incredulously.

'You don't believe me. Well, I don't care what you believe,' and she

turned her back on him and listened to the play.

And when the play was done Agnes went home in a hansom, sitting

between her mother and Lord Chadwick. St. Clare and Lilian followed in

another hansom, and the two hansoms drew up together in Grosvenor

Street. After the theatre there was always supper, and Agnes knew that

they would sit talking till one or two in the morning. She was not

hungry; she was tired; she asked if she might go to her room; they

were all glad to excuse her; and she ran up to her room and closed the

door. She threw off her opera cloak hastily, and then stood looking

into the fire. Suddenly her brain filled with thoughts which she could

not repress, and involuntary sensation crowded upon her. There was the

vivid sensation of her mother's painted face; there was the sensation

of her father--his strange clothes, his shy, pathetic face.... She

preferred to think of her father, and she asked herself why he did not

go to the theatre with them; why he did not appear oftener at meals.

His food was generally taken to him. Where did he live? Up that narrow

flight of stairs? She had seen him run up those stairs in strange

haste, as if he didn't wish to be seen, like a servant--an under

servant whose presence in the front of the house is discrepant.

Suddenly Agnes felt that she was very unhappy, and she unlaced her

bodice quickly. The action of unlacing distracted her thoughts. She

would not go to bed yet. She took a chair, and sat down in front of

the fire, thinking. The convent appeared to her clear and distinct in

all its quiet life of happy devotion and innocent recreation. She

remembered the pleasure she used to take in the work of the sacristy,

in laying out the vestments for the priest, for Father White; and in

the games at ball in the garden with those dear nuns. She remembered

them all; and, seen through the tender atmosphere of sorrow, they

seemed dearer than ever they had done before. How happy she had been

with them; she did not expect ever to be so happy again. The world was

so lonely, so indifferent. She was very unhappy.... And her life

seemed so fragile that the least touch would break it. Her tears

flowed as from a crystal, and they did not cease until the silence in

the street allowed her to hear her father's quick steps pacing it. She

could hear his steps coming from Grosvenor Square. Her poor father!

Every night it was the same ceaseless pacing to and fro. She had heard

her mother say that he sometimes walked till three in the morning. She

had watched him a night or two ago out of her window. It was freezing

hard, and he had on only an old grey suit of clothes buttoned tightly,

and a comforter round his neck. Her father's subordination in the

house was one of the mysteries which confronted Agnes. She did not

understand, but she knew by instinct that her father was not happy,

and her unhappiness went out to his. She pitied him, she longed to

make him happier. Others might think him strange, but she understood

him. Their talk was strange to her, not his. Last Sunday he had taken

her to mass, and they had walked in the park afterwards, and he had

been happy until they met Mr. Moulton. A little later they had met her

mother and Lord Chadwick. Mr. St. Clare and Miss Lilian Dare had come

to lunch. She had seen no more of her father that day. She had hoped

that Father White would come and see her, but he had not come; she had

sat in her room alone, and after dinner her mother had scolded her

because she did not talk to Lord Chiselhurst, an old man who had

talked to her in a loud rasping voice. He was overpowering; her

strength had given way, she had fainted, and she had been carried out

of the room. When she opened her eyes St. Clare was standing by

her.... She was glad it was he and not Lord Chiselhurst who had

carried her out.

But they would not let her back to the convent before six months. She

had been a week at home, and it had seemed a century. The time would

never pass. She did not think she would be able to endure it for six

months. Her father did not like her to go back. Was it not her duty to

remain by him? He was as unhappy as she, and she was very unhappy.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she cried until her tears were

interrupted by the sound of her father's latchkey.

She listened to his footsteps as he came upstairs. When he arrived on

her landing, instead of going to the end of the passage, and up the

staircase, he stopped; it seemed as if he were hesitating about

something. Agnes wondered, and hoped he was coming to see her. A

moment after he knocked.

'Is that you, father?'

'Yes.'

'Then wait a moment.'

She slipped her arms into her dressing-gown and opened the door to

him.

'It is nice and snug here,' he said, coming towards the fire--' nice

and snug. But bitterly cold in the street; I could not keep warm, yet

I walked at the rate of five miles an hour. I ran round Grosvenor

Square, but the moment I stopped running I began to get cold again. I

couldn't keep up the circulation anyhow.'

'Then sit down and warm yourself, father.'

'No thank you, I like standing up best. I'll just stop a minute. I

hope I am not in the way; tell me if I am.'

'In the way, father; what do you mean?'

'Nothing, dear, I only thought. Well, I'll just get the cold out of my

bones before I go up to my room. It is cold up there, I can tell you.'

The girl's keen, passionate eyes looking out of a grief-worn face, and

a figure so thin that she looked tall, contrasted with the little fat

man dressed in the yellow tweed suit buttoned across his rounding

stomach. To see them together by the fire in the bedroom made a

strange and moving picture. For the figures seemed united by

mysterious analogies and the fragments of bread and cheese which the

Major held in his old blued fingers were significant.

'I could hear them singing in the drawing-room,' he said, 'when I came

in, so I stepped into the dining-room. One feels a bit hungry after

walking. How did you like the play, dear?'

'Pretty well, father,' she answered, and she strove to check the tears

which rose to her eyes.

'You've been grieving, Agnes. What have you been grieving for--for

your convent; tell me, dear? I can't bear to see you unhappy.'

'No, father; don't think of me.'

'Not think of you, Agnes! Of whom should I think, then? Tell me all,

everything. If you're not happy here you shall go back. I won't see

you unhappy. It is my fault; only I thought that you had better come

home and see the world first. I _had_ thought that we might have

altered things here, just for your sake.'

'But you, father, you're not happy here; you would be still more

unhappy if I went back to the convent. That is true, isn't it?'

'Yes, that is true, dear; but you must not think about me. There's no

use thinking about me; I'm not worth thinking about.'

'Don't say that, father, you mustn't speak like that;' and unable to

control her feelings any longer, Agnes threw herself into her father's

arms. And she did not speak until she perceived that her father was

weeping with her.

'What are you weeping for, father?'

'For you, dear, because you're not happy.'

'There are other reasons,' she said, looking inquiringly and tenderly.

'No, dear, there's nothing else now in the world for me to grieve for.

You must go back to the convent if you're not happy.'

'But you, father?'

'It will be hard to lose you... things may change. You must have

patience; wait a little while, will you?'

'Of course, father, as long as you like, but you'll come down and talk

to me here?'

'Yes; I should have come oftener, but I know that I'm not clever, my

conversation isn't amusing, so I stick at my work up there.'

'You live up there?'

'Yes; you've not seen my room--a little room under the slates--

something like a monk's cell. I've often thought of going into a

monastery. I daresay it is from me that you get the taste.'

'You live up there, father; your room is up there. May I go up and see

you sometimes; I shan't be disturbing you at your work, shall I?'

'No; I should think not: just fancy you wishing to come to see me, and

up there too!'

'When may I come, father? When are you least busy?'

'You can come now.'

'May I?'

'We mustn't make any noise; all the servants are asleep,' and he held

the candle higher for her to see the last steps, and he pushed open a

door. 'It is here.'

It was a little loft under the roof, and the roof slanted so rapidly

that it was possible to stand upright only in one part of the room.

There was in one corner a truckle bed, which Agnes could hardly

believe her father slept in, and in the midst of the uncarpeted floor

stood the type-writing machine, the working of which the Major at once

explained to Agnes. He told her how much he had already earned, and

entered into a calculation of the number of hours he would have to

work before he could pay off the debt he had incurred in buying the

machine. His wife had advanced him the money to buy it--she must be

paid back. When that was done, he would be able to see ahead, and he

looked forward to the time when he would be independent. There were

other debts, but the first debt was the heaviest. His wife had

advanced the money for the clothes he had worn at the luncheon party,

and there was the furniture of his room. But that could not be much--

the bed, well that little iron framework, he had borrowed it; it had

come from the kitchen-maid's room. She had wanted a larger bed. 'But,

father, dear, you've hardly any bedclothes.' 'Yes, I have, dear. I

have that overcoat, and I sleep very well under it too. I bought it

from the butler, I paid him ten shillings for it, and I made the ten

shillings by copying. The money ought to have gone to your mother, but

I had to have something to cover me; it is very cold up here, and I

thought I had better keep her waiting than contract a new debt.'

'But what is mother's is yours, father.'

'Ah, I've heard people say that, but it isn't true.'

'How did you lose your money, father?' The Major told her how he had

been robbed.

'Then it was not your fault, father. And the man who robbed you you

say is now---'

'A great swell, and very highly thought of.'

Agnes saw the coarse clothes, the common boots, and the rough

comforter. And her eyes wandered round the room-the bare, miserable

little attic garret in which he lived. 'And with that type-writing

machine,' she thought, 'he is trying to redeem himself from the

disrespect he has fallen into because he was robbed of his money.'

'It must be getting very late, father; I had better go to my room.

But, father, you are not comfortable here; sleep in my room; let me

sleep here.'

'Let you sleep here, my daughter--sleep up here among the servants!'

He stayed a few minutes in her room, and while warming his hands, he

said:

'Everything in the world is dependent on money. We can preserve

neither our own nor the respect of others if we have nothing. I have

tried. It wasn't to be done.'