opened the door of the cottage with a latch-key, and bursting into her
room told her to give him a couple of sovereigns without delay. She
scrambled up, opened her little desk, and produced the money. He paid
his cab, then came in, sat down heavily on the side of the bed, and
breathed hard for a moment or two. Suddenly he fell forward on the
floor. She sprang to his side, wetted his face, loosened his collar,
held smelling salts to his nose, but for a long time it seemed to her
his heart had altogether ceased to beat. Presently he moved slightly,
and she renewed her efforts to revive him, calling him by all the
endearing terms she could think of. At last he put out his arm and
held her gently against him, whispering that she was his darling wife.
She nestled close to him and kept perfectly still, waiting for him to
speak. After a long time he opened his eyes and sat up; she begged him
to lie down on the bed, which he did, but it was some time before he
spoke. Then he said, ‘It’s all up, Gracie, I’m a ruined man. I shall
have to go away.’
‘What has happened, my dearest?’
‘They have done for me between them. You know I told you that I knew a
good deal more than some people would like to set about; well, they
came to hear of it, and they have made use of one of their agents, a
despicable man, to ruin me in the eyes of society. He induced me to
play _écarté_ with him; he manipulated the cards in such a way that I
should appear to be cheating; then he denounced me before the whole
club, and they believed him. I had to go.’
‘O George, why didn’t you turn the tables on him, and tell them what he
had done?’
‘My dear child, it’s no use a woman supposing she can understand these
things; you must take what I tell you on trust; don’t keep making
idiotic suggestions, and asking idiotic questions. I tell you it was
so, that should be enough for you.’
‘Yes, George. What are you going to do?’
‘God knows.’
‘George.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t do it?’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Didn’t cheat.’
‘Of course not, of course not! Oh, do go to sleep. I’ve talked until
I’m wearied out. I shall go up to the house now.’
‘Are you well enough?’
‘Don’t bother,’ and he went out banging the door after him. He lay in
bed all day on Monday. About five o’clock he ordered some tea, and
played with little Pierre, then he got up and dined. He did not go down
to the cottage until about ten o’clock. He found Grace busily engaged
packing up. He lounged in, and said, ‘What _are_ you doing?’
‘I am going up to London.’
‘What for?’
‘I am going back to Horsham’s Theatre.’
‘No, you are not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘How dare you speak to me like this?’
‘Because I dare speak to any one like this, when I do not love them.’
‘Oh! oh! that’s it, is it? We’ll see,’ and he came towards her
threateningly.
She stood perfectly still, looking straight into his eyes. He dropped
his hands and sat down, saying sneeringly, ‘I always thought women were
brutes, now I see it’s perfectly true.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘women are brutes. If you had loved me, if you had
believed in me, and trusted me last night, nothing would have made
me leave you. I should not have cared if you had been a thief, or a
murderer perhaps.’ Here he interrupted her.
‘Oh, don’t let us have all these heroics. I know it all: you’d go to
hell for me, wouldn’t you, as long as I feed your insatiable passion
for admiration? I’m sick of women and their melodramas.’ She stood
still looking at him. ‘I’ll just tell you the plain facts of the case,’
he continued more calmly. ‘Our love was of that resistless kind,
brought about when the appetite is so strong that every other faculty,
all prudence, all considerations of every sort, are thrust on one
side to gratify it. I admit it is a very charming state of things for
the parties concerned, while it lasts, but it does not last long. Our
delirium is over. You are a woman full of dreams and imaginations; you
worry me with the persistent foolishness of your ideas and ideals. I am
a man who knows all the moves, and the long and short of it is that I
know how to play the game; you do not.’
‘I shall soon learn, and perhaps my game will not be such a losing one
as yours has been.’
‘No one can tell, but the game is over sooner or later, and then it
doesn’t matter much whether you have lost or won, the pleasure is in
the game itself.’
‘Perhaps it does matter.’
‘I don’t think so. What really matters is letting your chessmen rule
you, that is what all mediocre people do.’
‘Why have you never talked seriously to me before?’
‘Because you were in love with me.’
‘What a horribly unscrupulous wretch you are!’
‘In his relations with women a man has to act two parts: at first
he must be Adam, young, ardent, and resistless, then he must be the
serpent, able to teach her all wisdom of the world.’
‘And is neither part a serious one?’
‘That depends upon the woman. Now we’ll talk things over quietly. You
want to go back to Horsham’s Theatre?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s no use your going on as you used to do.’
‘No. I know I was very bad, but I think I shall be better now.’
‘Well, let’s see what you’ve got in you, and then I shall know what is
to be done.’
He put her through the balcony scene in _Romeo and Juliet_, making
her cry with his severity, torturing her, and finding fault in every
possible way with her efforts to express the feeling of the words she
uttered. At the end of it she stood hopeless and dumfoundered at the
new world opening before her. For the first time it dawned on her what
acting really meant. She looked timidly at Travers. He was sitting in
a chair watching her doubtfully. He said, ‘Yes, that’s very good. You
work away at that, and we’ll do them all yet.’
‘You think I can go back to Horsham’s Theatre?’
‘No, I do not. But I’ll tell you what we will do. I’ll run you through
the States as a star, and then I’ll bring you over to England as a new
American actress. We’ll do them yet.’
‘But who is to pay?’
‘I’ll find the money, don’t you worry your head about that.’
* * * * *
On the following Tuesday the waiter at the Crown Hotel, Cowes,
respectfully informed Lady Kirkdale that Mr. Potter had sent the
pinnace of the _Sunflower_ to convey their ladyships on board.
‘I suppose, as Kirkdale hasn’t arrived yet, you and I will have to go
by ourselves,’ said Lady Kirkdale.
‘It’s a very funny thing he should suddenly change his mind and leave
us in the lurch like this.’
‘Perhaps Mr. Travers will be able to give us some information; he is to
be with the Potters to-day, I believe.’
‘I thought he would have called on us this morning. I didn’t
understand, Maisy, that he was to stay on board with them. Don’t you
think it’s rather odd of the Potters to ask him to stay there when
Kirkdale hasn’t anywhere to go to?’
‘A great many things in this life are odd, my dear, and I’m afraid my
thinking won’t alter them, so I don’t trouble my head.’
As Geraldine climbed the side of the yacht she looked in vain for
Travers.
‘What has happened to everybody?’ she said to Maisy the moment she
could take her aside.
‘Why? what have you heard?’ asked Maisy doubtfully.
‘Nothing. Kirkdale has not sent a word of explanation. I thought we
should get an explanation from Mr. Travers, but he is not here either.’
‘Come down to my cabin a minute,’ said Maisy, leading the way into an
exceedingly shipshape-looking little apartment, full of the typical
_multum in parvo_ contrivances which have been invented for the
convenience of those who have little space at command. They sat down on
the locker, and Maisy began--
‘A dreadful thing has happened, and I don’t know how to break it to
mamma, I’m sure.’
‘To whom?’
‘Of course, I think Kirkdale terribly to blame for not making sure
first----’
‘What are you talking of? Is Kirkdale dead?’
‘No, no, what nonsense! I mean he should have made sure of Mr. Travers.’
‘Good God, Maisy! you will drive me mad. Is Mr. Travers dead? Say yes
or no.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if he were.’
‘Has he had an accident? Is Kirkdale nursing him?’
‘I tell you he’s quite well. You won’t let me explain properly what has
happened.’
‘Go on,’ said Geraldine, in a dull, toneless voice.
‘He played a game of _écarté_ with Robert at the club on Saturday
night, and Robert found out that he was cheating him.’
‘What did Robert do?’
‘Well, he watched him very carefully, and when he was quite sure he got
up and told him he would not play any more with him.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘The members of the club were very angry, I believe, and agreed that
Mr. Travers should not be re-admitted.’
‘I think Robert behaved abominably.’
‘Why?’
‘I think he owed it to Kirkdale to shield his friend. What does it
matter whether a man cheats at cards or not? Everybody cheats, at other
things besides cards, in their own particular way.’
‘My dear Geraldine, how often have I told you we must take things as
we find them? It is considered wrong for men to cheat at cards, and it
disgraces them. It is not considered very wrong for women to cheat at
cards; people rather expect it, and laugh at it. It’s no use arguing
about it. It is so, and there’s an end of it.’
‘Why should there be one law for men and another for women?’
‘I don’t know, I dare say there are some things winked at in a man
which would not be permitted to women. I don’t know what they are, but
one never can tell.’
‘What will Mr. Travers do?’
‘Disappear.’
‘O Maisy, how dreadful! I expect he is terribly hard up. Can’t we help
him?’
‘I expect Kirkdale is seeing after him. Kirkdale is very foolish. It is
a great pity he has not turned out better. He is such a very handsome
man.’
‘I don’t think Mr. Travers handsome, if you are talking of him; but
there was a sort of pleasure in his society I never felt with any one
else.’
‘Yes, he had a charm, there is no doubt of that.’
‘You think so. You felt it too. O Maisy, Maisy, whatever shall I do?’
Lady Geraldine broke down into passionate sobs. ‘I am a fool! What
shall I do? what shall I do?’ she cried.
‘My poor dear Gerry, don’t cry; I didn’t know it was as serious as all
this. I took a great fancy to him myself, but I don’t feel as badly as
you do, thank goodness.’
‘I know he is the only man in the world I could ever care for,’ sobbed
Geraldine.
‘Try and think of somebody else.’
‘I hate everybody else. If I think of other people, it is only to think
of the difference between him and them. He is so graceful, they are so
proper. He always has something charming to say, they always say the
things one has heard over and over again. He is like the Dancing Faun,
they are like a tailor’s block. Oh, what is the use of saying all this?
He makes my heart beat with happiness when I only hear his footstep.
When I touch other men my blood turns cold, and my heart turns to ice.’
‘Geraldine, Geraldine, you are really dreadful. I’m sure it isn’t at
all proper to feel like that. I never felt so about Robert. I always
liked other people. Of course, one feels that one’s husband _is_ one’s
husband. But still----’
‘I never thought I felt like this till to-day; I didn’t realise it
before: it has come upon me suddenly. It is as if I had been swimming
about in beautiful blue water, and suddenly found myself being sucked
down by a whirlpool.’
‘Don’t you think we had better ask mamma about it? I really don’t know
what to advise.’
‘Not on any account. Swear to me you will not breathe a word of this to
any one. I shall get over it. Don’t be afraid. See now, I will bathe my
eyes and come upstairs.’
Geraldine soon effaced all traces of her emotion, except a slight
redness about the whites of her eyes, and the two sisters went on deck.
Robert Potter had in the meantime communicated the news to Lady
Kirkdale, who was sitting under a large Japanese umbrella looking
unusually perturbed. Geraldine took her place under the awning and was
soon surrounded with a group of merrymakers, and she laughed and talked
and picnicked, drank champagne, and made feeble jokes, quite as gaily
as the rest. However, directly she got back to the hotel she told her
mother her head ached. She went and shut herself up in her room. Here
she wrote the following letter:--
‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I am so sorry, so very sorry, for what has
happened. I have been afraid you were in money difficulties for some
time. Will you give me the happiness of helping you out of them?
Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I don’t believe in society,
or any of its laws. I enclose twenty-five pounds in notes, hoping
you will accept them as a proof that I will do anything I can to
extricate you from the difficulties in which you are involved.--Yours
always sincerely,
‘GERALDINE FITZJUSTIN.’
She took the letter to the post herself. It was almost the first time
in her life she had left the house unattended. She felt that every one
must know what she was doing, that she was being watched, and that
the post-office clerk guessed the reason of her sending a registered
letter. At last she completed the business, and putting the tell-tale
little flimsy receipt-paper in her purse, she hurried back to the
hotel. Just as she entered it she encountered Lord Kirkdale and Mr.
Clausen, who had that moment arrived.
‘Out alone, Lady Geraldine?’
‘Yes, what is one to do when one’s brother deserts one like this?’
‘Your maid?’
‘Gone out herself; she didn’t expect us back so soon, I suppose; we
have been on board the _Sunflower_ all the afternoon, you know.’
‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Kirkdale as they entered the private
sitting-room.
‘Yes; what has become of Mr. Travers? Is he at Old Windsor?’
‘He is.’
She sighed with relief.
‘Clausen and I went down yesterday and arranged to get his wife
something to do.’
‘His wife!’
‘Oh! didn’t you know that he was married? I thought you said you had
heard the news.’
‘Married? married? When? who to?’
‘About three months ago: a most beautiful girl. You may have heard of
her--Grace Lovell--she was an actress.’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Geraldine, in a bewildered tone. ‘What did you
say? Why didn’t he tell us?’
‘I can’t say. It’s all very ugly, on the face of it; and I tell you
what, Geraldine, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s one of the
biggest villains on earth. I did you all a terrible wrong in bringing
him to the house. I have to ask your forgiveness.’
She looked at her brother a long time, and the tears gathered in her
eyes; then she turned away, and hastily entered her own room. Here she
found her maid laying out her clothes for the evening.
‘Never mind now, Elizabeth, I want to lie down quietly.’ As she spoke
she crossed to her writing-desk and her eyes fell on a sheet of
note-paper on which she had scribbled the first wild words that had
come into her head when she sat down to write to George Travers. There
they were, staring her in the face, ‘My dearest, dearest one on earth,
I have heard of your ruin. Come and let me see you once more. I will
give you all I have to enable you to----’; then she had stopped herself
and written the more moderate note for his eyes, leaving her real
passionate words, the words which had been the expression of her inmost
feelings, for the eyes of her maid.
She turned to look at the woman, but found she was calmly taking her
wrapper out of the wardrobe. Had she seen or not? No trace was visible
on her face. Geraldine sat down in front of the glass, and said, ‘You
can wash my head, Elizabeth; I think it will refresh me.’
The woman made all the preparations. While she had gone for hot water,
Geraldine seized the incriminating note and tore it into a thousand
pieces. She had just time to thrust it behind the grate and walk
quietly across the room when the maid re-entered. Her eye fell for a
moment on the writing-table. ‘She has read it,’ thought Geraldine. She
sat quite still for a long time; then she said, ‘What should you say if
I were to marry Lord Foreshort after all, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth started visibly.
‘I should hope your ladyship would be very happy, I’m sure.’
‘Why were you so surprised?’
‘I didn’t think your ladyship seemed willing to take him before.’
There was a long pause while her hair was washed, and Elizabeth was
rubbing vigorously when Lady Geraldine said, ‘How is your poor sister
now?’
‘The one that was deceived so cruelly?’
‘Yes. The one that fell in love with a married man.’
‘Well, your ladyship, I didn’t like to tell you after all your kindness
to her in finding her that place and all, but I’m very much afraid
she’s gone off to America with him.’
‘Really! She has done that, has she?’
‘I was afraid your ladyship would be annoyed, so I didn’t mention it.
But she disappeared, and some time afterwards I had a letter from her,
telling me about how he had got a bit of land out in Canada, and she
had joined him there.’
‘And what were they doing?’
‘I’m sorry to say, they seemed doing very well; she wrote most bright
and cheerful like. I must beg your ladyship’s pardon for saying it, but
they do say the wicked flourish like green bay trees, don’t they, your
ladyship?’
‘I suppose they do, sometimes; but don’t be sorry they are happy,
Elizabeth.’
‘No, your ladyship.’
‘Elizabeth, I want you to bring all the letters that come for me into
my bedroom. Tell the waiter to give them to you.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘You’d better have that black silk petticoat; it will be nice and cool
for you to wear, and I shall keep to white all the rest of the summer.’
‘Yes, your ladyship.’
‘Now I will lie down; don’t let me be disturbed until it is time to
dress for dinner.’
‘No, your ladyship.’
* * * * *
‘A telegram for your ladyship,’ said Elizabeth as Geraldine entered her
bedroom about twelve o’clock next morning to get ready for a stroll on
the beach.
‘All right. I shall not want you for a minute or two.’ Elizabeth
discreetly left the room.
She opened the brown envelope, took out the flimsy pink paper, and
read, ‘Have started for Portsmouth. Will write. Travers.’
That she could not prevent, that she could do nothing to stop, him
coming was a thought that filled her with exultation. He was getting
nearer and nearer every moment; and what was more, she was to have
a letter from him--it would arrive that evening by the last post
perhaps; if not, certainly in the morning. Then she thought of his
being married, but it made no difference; she knew he had married
before he saw her, that was all that really mattered to her. She rang
for Elizabeth, and crushing the telegram up put it into the front
of her dress. She dressed, and went out in the highest spirits. She
was charming to every one, and made herself so agreeable that Lord
Foreshort felt quite encouraged. He said, ‘How well this climate agrees
with you!’
‘Doesn’t it. It is exactly the sort of place I like: plenty of life
about, and at the same time everything is clean, and spick and span.’
‘It’s perfect. Our tastes are so alike.’
‘You are always saying that, Lord Foreshort.’
‘I am always thinking it, Lady Geraldine.’
‘Then you have no time to think about your tastes?’
‘No, I am always thinking of yours.’
‘So am I.’
‘There, I told you we agreed.’
‘Well, that’s settled. Now let us talk of something else.’
‘When will you begin to let me hope.’
‘You are hoping now, are you not?’
‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Mean what?’
‘That I may hope?’
‘I can’t prevent you hoping, can I?’
‘Yes, you know you can.’
‘Well, I’ve tried to a good many times.’
‘But you will give up trying now, won’t you? Take another tack.’
‘Very well. You have hoped without my permission the whole of the
London season; you can hope with my permission during the shooting
season, then perhaps you will be sick of hope.’
‘Yes, I shall claim my reward then.’
‘Ah! that’s “another story.” We mustn’t get on too fast.’
That evening the expected letter arrived. It ran thus--
‘DEAR LADY GERALDINE,--You have restored my belief in the human race.
I have indeed received a crushing blow from your brother-in-law, and
it is not fitting that I should inform you of the true facts of the
case. Honour seals my lips. But although it is forbidden to me to
justify myself in your eyes without degrading those who must ever be
first in your esteem, your generous letter emboldens me to ask you to
believe me, on my bare word, that things are not as they, no doubt,
have been represented to you. I am coming to Portsmouth so as to hold
myself in readiness to obey any commands you may care to issue to
your most devoted adorer,
‘GEORGE TRAVERS.’
Geraldine wondered a good deal over this letter, but all the same she
wore it next her heart for four days. She wrote in reply--
‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I can’t think of any way of seeing you here, but
next Monday we go to our place near Ringwood. If you will put up at
the village hotel there, I will write and let you know what I can
arrange.--Yours most sincerely,
‘G. F.’
On Sunday she took a long walk with a party of friends. She and
Mr. Clausen were ahead. Mr. Clausen knew the island well, and had
undertaken to act as pioneer. By degrees she led the conversation to
the subject which occupied so many of her thoughts, and Clausen found
himself giving her a full account of what had taken place at Old
Windsor the previous Monday.
‘Kirkdale and I went down to Datchet and drove to Old Windsor: there
we found Mrs. Travers occupying a little cottage, pretty enough in its
way, but only fit for a labouring man,--the chairs covered and windows
hung with white dimity, an old oak settle, and so on. You know the
kind of thing.’
‘What is she like?’
‘An exceedingly pretty, dark, slight woman. She is very young; but
she gives you an extraordinary impression of knowing her own mind at
moments.’
‘What is her version of their life together?’
‘She spoke of nothing but her great desire to go on the stage again; he
has been preventing her doing so, all this time. They appear to have
been exceedingly happy together otherwise.’
‘Do you believe he really loves her?’
‘He must have, I should think; there seems to have been no other reason
why he should marry her?’
‘He may have liked her at first, but perhaps she is a shallow sort of
person. I should think he wanted a very deep nature to sympathise with
him.’
‘I don’t think she is shallow; but you mustn’t forget, when you talk
of depth of character, the thinnest sheet of gold-leaf is a good deal
more valuable than a whole bogful of mud.’
‘And is she going back to the stage now?’
‘We promised to arrange it for her. Horsham is a great friend of mine.
She made her success with him, and he was delighted to hear she was
ready to come back again; but now----’
‘What?’ said Lady Geraldine.
‘Well, I fear her husband has found out what a little gold-mine she may
become. She wrote to me yesterday, saying he had been coaching her in
some leading parts, and proposed touring with her in the States if he
can get some capital to start them.’
‘But isn’t he fearfully hard up now?’
‘A man like that is never without resources; if he cannot get money out
of men, he can get it out of women.’
‘O Mr. Clausen, how dreadful that sounds!’
‘Lady Geraldine, I beg your pardon. I should not have said such a
thing to you; forgive me.’
‘No, Mr. Clausen, I beg of you, don’t think I am so absurd; girls hear
of all sorts of things nowadays. I want to know what you really think
Mr. Travers will do.’
‘He will do anything that he thinks most likely to bring in a quick
return.’
‘But what is his object? His tastes are so fastidious. I cannot imagine
his being content to mix with actors and actresses for the rest of
his life, they are such flashy, noisy people. Whenever one sees any
very disagreeable set at Henley or Lords, one is always told they are
actresses.’
‘Yes, that is the phrase, of course; still, in justice to the
profession, I must say that a great many actresses go about quite as
dowdily as the royal family. There is no distinctive badge which can be
applied to all the members of the profession.’
‘But I cannot imagine Mr. Travers tolerating anything that isn’t in the
best taste.’
‘He no doubt prefers everything about him to be of the best; but as
he has effectually cut himself off from it by being twice caught in
the act of cheating at cards, he will have to satisfy himself with the
second best now.’
‘Tell me what is a man’s real feeling about this cheating at cards.
Why is it the most terrible sin he can commit? It seems to me, from
hearing people talk, that it is quite possible to break every one of
the commandments without losing a single acquaintance, but directly you
commit this particular crime the whole world cuts you.’