THE "IDEAL"
While Raymond Meredith convalesced at Darjeeling in the care of Nurse
Dalton--the identity of whose name with that of the doctor being
generally understood at Muktiarbad to be a mere freak of
coincidence--his family in Surrey waxed strong and healthy in the
glorious summer weather. Baby Douglas, who lived out of doors, had
cheeks like a damask rose, while his mother gained gracious curves which
added to her already radiant beauty. Even her pretty little sister who
had recently put up her hair, was eclipsed. But only in point of looks.
Kitty was not one to be overlooked in any company, by any means. What
she lacked in regularity of feature, she made up for in charm of
expression, a delightful speaking voice, and a ready tongue. Bright eyes
given to laughter, the gleam of white teeth, curving red lips mobile and
piquant, a dimpled cheek, laughter creases at the corners of the
full-lidded, soft eyes, that had a roguish trick of quizzing--eyes that
had borrowed their hue from the summer sky, with lashes like her
sister's, and an indefinable little nose, made up a whole which was
positively unfair to the rest of her sex, judging from the fact that
every other girl was superfluous when Kitty was on the scene. And she
was not blind to her own success, yet she was merciful out of the
tenderness of her naturally good heart that never inflicted suffering
wantonly; and if it happened that, owing to her irresistible
fascination, she was the means of causing pain, to her credit be it
said, that she was clever at healing the wounds she unwittingly
inflicted, which saved unhappy consequences to unfortunate victims, and
bound them to her as friends for life.
"I am so afraid of your becoming a flirt," Joyce once said
reproachfully, after one of these instances was explained and apologised
for. "You should think twice before you let yourself become too
friendly. It will prevent any foolish mistakes in the end. Of course I
speak from bitter experience."
Kitty, who was aware of that experience, sighed repentently. "Why didn't
Providence make me a boy? I love them all so much."
"You would then, with your thoughtlessness, have broken some poor girl's
heart. Half a dozen, perhaps."
"It is very difficult to know what to do," said Kitty with the roguish
twinkle reasserting itself in her eyes.
"You have to nip all silly sentimentality in the bud. The real thing is
never silly," said Joyce out of her superior wisdom.
"That's the difficulty. I never notice the bud till it is a full-blown
passion-flower! I think I should become a nun."
Joyce hugged her by way of appreciation, unable to resist the dimple
which fascinated even a sister.
There is nothing so winning as an imperishable sense of humour.
Vivaciousness, and an infectious gaiety which radiates like the sun and
dispels the shadows of depression in a moment--these were Kitty's chief
assets. She had danced through childhood like a sunbeam. She had been
the merriest of flappers and was now a sorceress to beguile with her
arts in innocent and unconscious charm. Kitty's laughter, accompanied by
that irresistible dimple, was the most captivating thing. Tender smiles
greeted the sight of her from aged lips, and masculine youth felt drawn
as by a magnet.
So it came to pass, that Jack Darling who was spending six months
medical leave in England, fell a victim to Kitty's charm shortly before
Mrs. Fox's decree nisi against her husband became absolute.
It was at the Victoria Underground station, near the booking-office,
that they met. Believing that the wide hat and muslin gown could belong
to none other than Mrs. Meredith who he knew was "at home," he pushed
through the crowd and presented himself.
"Such a pleasure, Mrs. Meredith!" It is always such a pleasure to meet
friends in London with whom one has been intimate in a distant land.
Especially is it true of friends from India.
But two remarkably beautiful eyes turned full upon him in blank
amazement and a hint of a twinkle in their cerulean depths. They said
plainly, "You've made a mistake, bold Sir, but how delightful that you
should know my sister!"
Before she could speak, Jack was apologising profusely, hat in hand, and
blushing to the roots of his shining, well-brushed hair.
Restored to health after a yachting cruise off the coast of Scotland,
Jack was a splendid specimen of manhood to look upon, though still
inwardly depressed with the sense of the Inevitable awaiting him in the
East. ("Such a lamb!" was Kitty's description, which was her highest
praise.)
"I am so sorry--I--I do beg your pardon, but I would have sworn--in fact
any one would be ready to swear----"
"That I am my sister?" she laughed, showing the engaging string of
pearls and the irrepressible dimple. "Thank you so much. I always
appreciate a compliment when it is sincere, for I am a great admirer of
Mrs. Meredith."
"Then--then you are Miss Wynthrop--_Kitty_?" he said, blushing still
more furiously. "I beg your pardon," he added apologising for his
boldness in using her Christian name. "We used to talk so much about you
at Muktiarbad. But you are even more--at least I was thinking of your
photograph," he concluded lamely.
He had thought it a charming photograph of a girl, and now the original
in natural colouring, youth, and perfect health had thrown his mind into
chaos. Fragments of forgotten verses he had composed to his "Ideal,"
before the baneful influence of Mrs. Fox had drugged his senses and
threatened the ruin of his career, now returned to haunt his memory and
justify their extravagance.
At last she was before him in the flesh, not secretly reposing on a
piece of pasteboard at the bottom of a dispatch-box left behind in
India!
"Yes, I am Kitty," she answered with animation. "But you? I am sure I
know you? My sister has a photograph of a Station group--ah, you are
'Jack'! I can't remember the other name."
"Darling!" he prompted eagerly with a suspicion of fervour. To hear her
pronounce his name was to listen to the most adorable music.
"Of course! Fancy my forgetting! And your chum in the police is Tommy
Deare? How perfectly priceless! I know you both intimately. You live in
a little three-roomed bungalow near the Courts, all among weeds and
snakes, and never go to church unless you are caught and taken!"
"You've got it exactly!" he returned delighted. Was there ever such a
girl before? _Why is a dimple in the left cheek like--nothing on earth?_
he wondered ecstatically. _Because it is so absolutely divine!_ he
concluded, mentally, to his own intense satisfaction at the inspiration.
"Now what a pity I am not my sister!" she said mischievously. "What a
great deal you must have in common."
"I shall call on your sister if I may. At present--I am quite content,"
he returned wishing his appointment at a fashionable club in Mayfair at
Jericho. For a dime he would let it slide and follow her to the ends of
London.
"I am sure my sister will be delighted," said Kitty cordially. Then
followed an exchange of addresses, Jack's being the name of a well-known
club. "Mother always welcomes Joyce's friends from India. They come for
a week-end and usually stay a week. The name India is a passport to our
house."
"Of course I led up to it," the minx said to Joyce on describing the
meeting. "I couldn't dream of letting him vanish and be lost to us, when
he is the most delightful boy I have ever met."
"A very naughty boy, I am afraid, though I have a soft corner for him,"
said Mrs. Meredith, who considered the recital of Jack's misdeeds unfit
for Kitty's ears.
"It is the naughty ones that are generally so nice," Kitty said with a
sigh. "They are so human and attractive."
"Because they are naughty?" Joyce was shocked to hear such radical
sentiments from little Kitty.
"It always strikes me that if they are capable of great naughtiness,
they are equally capable of much good. It is the force that I admire. It
only wants proper direction." (Which remark proved that Kitty's mind was
capable of sympathetic understanding.)
Jack and Kitty enjoyed their chance meeting so much that they missed
their respective trains repeatedly. Hers on the "West bound" platform,
and his on the "East," might have rumbled in and out of the station
beneath them, _ad infinitum_, had not Kitty recollected that she was due
to have tea with an aunt at Richmond, who was impervious to diplomacy
and dimples and with whom no excuses concerning Fate and an Affinity at
the Victoria Underground, would avail, if the kettle were over-boiled
and the tea delayed. So Kitty reluctantly bade him adieu.
"You are surely not going all that long way alone?" asked Jack, whose
young sisters travelled the length and breadth of London unescorted.
"Do you think it unsafe?" asked the minx, seeing through his idea and
encouraging the development of possibilities.
"One hears so much about girls mysteriously disappearing from London,
you know," he murmured. "I couldn't bear to hear of such a thing
happening to you, so I'll come as far as Richmond station, if I may?"
"That will be charming of you! Are you sure it will not be taking you
much out of your way?"
"Not at all," Jack returned with gallantry, breaking his engagement
without compunction. Thereupon, he bought their tickets, and sitting
beside her on the crimson velvet seats of a Richmond "Non-stop," plunged
recklessly into love at first sight. The moral obligation oppressing his
mind was swept away for the time being. How was it possible for it to be
otherwise, when he had come into the presence of his "Ideal" in the
flesh?
And Kitty, complete mistress of the situation, did not let him guess by
word or look that she had been equally impressed. It was thrilling to
think that this godlike person had a photograph of herself tucked away
somewhere among his goods and chattels. Naughty Joyce had confessed the
fact to her long ago, and she was beginning to feel that she now had him
in the hollow of her hand. She had no hesitation in improving the
acquaintance begun in such an unorthodox fashion; a friend of her
sister's was, naturally, a friend of hers. Such being the case, she
could afford to expand genially and to fan the flame her portrait had
kindled, experiencing for the first time in her life an answering glow.
* * * * *
Jack returned to London, deep in day-dreams and oblivious of his
surroundings. Kitty's face and Kitty's voice were with him all the way;
and he groaned in spirit at the thought of his madness and folly in the
past.
It was inconceivable that he could have been such a fool; that he should
have allowed himself to forget the high standards of life he had
cherished, for a low intrigue! The idea of being tied for life to Mrs.
Fox had been distasteful all along; but now it was intolerable! After
the vision of Kitty Wynthrop, it was impossible, any longer, to
contemplate marriage with a woman of Mrs. Fox's type! Whatever she might
think of him, he would not do it. He would infinitely rather put an end
to his life!
Of course, he was dishonourable. That went without saying. He had failed
ignominiously from the outset to behave as an upright and honourable
man. Self-analysis laid his pride in the dust and made him writhe in
self-condemnation.
If Kitty only knew, she would despise him as he deserved! She was so
pure, so perfectly wonderful! What a wife she would make! and so on, and
so forth. Jack endured agonies of remorse for a week, during which time
he was lost to the world; and then, with a temperamental rebound he
called at Wynthrop Manor with the humble determination of laying himself
at Kitty's feet that she might walk over him as she willed. Big,
ingenuous men, like Jack Darling, are happiest when doormats to the
women they love.
Joyce Meredith was delighted to see him. His presence in England argued
that he had shaken himself free of the toils of that scheming flirt,
Mrs. Fox, and she was ready to help him to recover his forgotten ideals.
She had never really believed Jack as guilty as he was reputed to be,
and, like nine out of ten women, put all the blame on the woman. Anyhow,
she was sure that gossip and scandal had exaggerated everything, which
was the most charitable way to look at the affair. As a Christian woman,
it was her duty to think kindly of the erring, and sit in judgment on no
one. She, therefore, welcomed Jack with great amiability and earned his
everlasting gratitude by putting no obstacles in the way of his
courtship of Kitty.
About this time, she received a letter from Honor telling her of
Meredith being down with sunstroke, and was rudely awakened to the fact
that she had been taking too much for granted where India and her
husband's health were concerned.
Though Honor wrote that he was out of danger and slowly
recovering,--that a nurse was expected that very day,--the little wife
was beside herself with anxiety and alarm, and wanted to take the first
steamer sailing for Bombay that she might be with him, to leave him no
more.
"I should never have come away!" she cried inconsolably.
"I could never understand how you brought yourself to do so," said Kitty
ruthlessly.
"I have been a selfish wretch, thinking only of myself, and of my
anxieties for Baby!"
"Well, you've got Baby, any way."
"But if I should lose Ray, what is Baby to me!"
Kitty, who had not the heart to add to her beloved sister's agony, did
her best to comfort her. "He was out of danger when Miss Bright
wrote--let me see--that was about three weeks ago, or nearly, and, as
you have had no cable since, it follows that he is all right by now."
"But I ought to go straight to him!"
"And they might be sending him straight home to you!"
It was not at all an unlikely possibility, so Joyce cabled to her
husband to inquire his plans.
The answer came from Darjeeling that, in view of the great heat in the
Red Sea at that season of the year, he was recuperating in the hills.
She was then persuaded by relatives and friends to possess her soul in
patience and adhere to her original plan of returning to India in the
autumn,--the best time for arriving in the East. By then she would be
able to decide whether to take her baby out to India, or leave him
behind in the care of the grandparents and a capable nurse.
A slight indisposition to the infant owing to the disturbances of
teething, decided her to remain, and to pour out her heart to her
husband in a letter telling him of her longing to be with him during his
convalescence.
Somehow the written words did not adequately convey her depth of
feeling, and Joyce was dissatisfied, especially with the passage which
referred to the baby's indisposition:
"If Baby were not teething and in uncertain health, I would leave
immediately for India,--but I am advised to hold on till the autumn when
I can better decide whether I should leave him behind, or not. I am, of
course, comforted to know that you are getting better, and, perhaps, it
will be as well on account of the heat in the Red Sea and of the
unhealthiness of the rains if I do exercise a little patience and wait.
However, dearest, cable if you are not quite well by the time this
reaches you, and I shall take my passage at once."
"It sounds rather as if I am placing the baby before him," she said to
Kitty.
"And haven't you done so all along?"
Joyce looked perplexed. "If I have, it is only because it seemed to me
the wee darling needed me more than Ray did."
"I wonder!" said Kitty out of a new perception of life and the needs of
love. "After all, there are many to look after Baby if you must leave
him in England. If I were in your place, and if there was nobody to take
charge of him, I'd keep him out there, somehow. There must be good
places in the hills, you have such a choice of stations,--and even
babies have to take their chance, same as their daddies! It must be
terribly lonely for a man when his wife, whom he adores as Ray adores
you, leaves him and comes away home for the sake of the child!
Personally, I couldn't do it."
Kitty's candid views carried conviction and aroused reflection.
Gradually Joyce became aware of a great longing to be again with her
splendid husband and feel anew his love and devotion.
As no answering cable arrived from Darjeeling requesting her presence in
India, and as the weekly letters mentioned that he was convalescing
satisfactorily, Joyce was beginning to nurse a creeping fear that her
husband had, perhaps, learned to do very well without her. But pride
sealed her lips and her letters to him contained no reference to any
such thought. His, to her, since his illness, had become erratic and
brief. He would begin by expressing a great distaste for the pen, allude
to a feeling of incurable lassitude, curse an elusive memory, and, after
giving her news of little consequence to themselves, would conclude in
the manner that had become a formula of late:--"Your affectionate
husband, Ray."
However, Joyce was determined not to borrow trouble. When they came
together again it would surely be all right. Sunstroke was a paralysing
illness and recovery from its effects was slow, she was assured; so, for
a while, she must expect his mind to feel lethargic. With the
restoration of perfect health his old tenderness would return, for true
love could never die!
* * * * *
To Jack, the summer months were paradise, for the beautiful environs of
Wynthrop Manor gave him many opportunities for uninterrupted
companionship with Kitty. They walked, fished, golfed, and played tennis
together. He was in love in the wild tempestuous way of youth, and
ready, if need be, to die for the object of his adoration.
But Kitty was not too easy to win. The more attracted she felt, the more
elusive she became. She would surround herself constantly with girl
friends, that Jack might have no doubts concerning his choice; clever
girls, and pretty girls were invited there for tennis and tea during
Jack's lengthy visit to the Manor, till he was nearly distracted with
impatience. Yet he hesitated to speak from an overwhelming sense of his
utter unworthiness.
Could he dare to ask her to be his wife, and allow her to believe him
all that a young girl's fancy might paint him? Would she consent to
marry him if she were aware of the peculiar situation in which he stood
with regard to Mrs. Fox whose letters still arrived at his chambers, and
to whom he still wrote, only to keep her from following him to England?
She had threatened to do so at all costs, if he neglected to keep in
touch with her, and the fear of bringing about such an undesirable
climax had obliged him to temporise.
* * * * *
Early in August, when the Great War broke out, and all England was in
the turmoil of mobilisation, and the manhood of the nation was flocking
to join the Colours, Jack complied with the demands of his conscience
and called at the India Office for permission to resign his service that
he might join the Army. But the Secretary of State flatly refused his
application and he was told, instead, to hold himself in readiness for
an immediate recall to his duties in the East. No civil officer of the
Indian Government was eligible for a commission in His Majesty's Forces
except with the sanction of that Government alone. Thereupon, Jack,
deeply depressed in spirit at his impending exile, joined Joyce and
Kitty at Eastbourne whither they had gone for a change.
For the time being, civil life and economic conditions were
disorganised. All England was in a turmoil of preparation for the
Titanic struggle on the fields of France. People were becoming alive to
the fact that even a democracy has its obligations to the State which
guarantees it freedom; for freedom can only depend upon victory over
autocracy and militarism. Private property was commandeered for the
needs of the Army; public buildings became hospitals; motor cars and
horses were requisitioned and carried off. Self-sacrifice became the
order of the day. For weeks, no dependence could be placed upon railway
time-tables, and all personal and individual concerns were forgotten in
the overwhelming needs of the hour. A peace-loving people, averse to
war, aware of all the horrors it entailed, yet rose to the supreme
occasion, mindful of the great traditions of their forefathers, and
stood ready for any sacrifice in the cause of honour, freedom, and the
Right.
When Jack was asked to describe the state of London, he felt that it
wanted more than words to paint its state in those historic days. The
people having spent their feelings in a great outburst of loyalty and
patriotism, were beginning dimly to realise the gigantic task to which
the nation was pledged,--a nation, which, but for its Navy, was totally
unprepared for war, and yet ready to withstand a formidable European
Power that had secretly and thoroughly organised and planned for over
forty years to strike a blow for world-domination. Right was in conflict
with Might, and the end no man could then see; yet London was confident;
but London was also very grave.
About this time, Joyce, to her great dismay, received a cable from her
husband forbidding her to travel on the high seas till security thereon,
for passengers, was assured. She had not realised till she received the
message, how much she had been depending for happiness on the prospect
of their reunion in the autumn. If the war was to stand in the way of
her return to India, it might then be years before she should see her
husband again--which would be unthinkable!
In the presence of Kitty's romance she was learning to comprehend the
extent of her own loss,--her deplorable lack of appreciation in the
past;--and she recognised that she had only herself to blame. Ray had
loved her greatly; how greatly, she was only now beginning to
understand, and her very soul hungered for that love with a nostalgia
that was making her ill. If, by her folly, she had sacrificed that
devotion--if he had ceased to love her altogether, and had met another
more responsive and appreciative than she had been, she would not want
to live; for even her beloved babe would no longer suffice to fill her
life.
Memory recalled for her torment, certain words of his at parting. He had
been wounded at her determination to leave him so soon after their
marriage, and being ignorant of the true cause of her nervous
break-down, he had expressed little sympathy, and had accused her of
failure of affection for him. "Remember, a big breach between husband
and wife may be mended, but never again is there restored what has been
lost!" he had said. Also: "You are straining the cord that binds us
together; the strands will presently be so weak that they will snap
altogether. Then all the splicing afterwards will never restore it to
its original strength. It will be a patched-up thing; its perfection
gone!"
Had she done this terrible thing by her own shortsightedness and folly?
Little did he guess at the time of their parting that she was suffering
tortures of self-contempt and nervous dread of his scorn, were he to
know all that was on her mind!
And now, after this lapse of months, she was longing to make full
confession and atonement. With her in his arms and their love fully
restored, he would surely forgive her her foolishness and the silence
which he had mistaken for lack of affection.
But, the war!
She would not be able to go to him now, and he would continue to believe
that she had failed him! Her affectionate letters had not convinced him,
for actions speak louder than words. Gradually an icy atmosphere of
indifference had breathed forth at her from his letters, and she had
been filled with secret uneasiness and fears. He was indeed learning to
do without her.
Possibly the cord that had bound them together had snapped!
Upon this, came a letter one day, from Honor Bright.
Honor had been spending the hot months at Mussoorie in the Himalayas,
which the Brights had always preferred to Darjeeling; and, after the
monsoons had broken, her mother had joined her there till the middle of
July, when they had returned together to Muktiarbad. For months Joyce
and Honor had corresponded, fitfully, so that it was no surprise to the
former when the Indian mail brought her a letter in her friend's
hand-writing, the contents of which were acutely disturbing. Joyce read
and re-read the letter, filled with alarm and foreboding.
What was Honor hinting at? and had she any grounds for hinting at all?
Honor was evidently perturbed about something in connection with Ray, or
why this strange appeal to his wife to let nothing come in the way of
her returning to her place beside her husband, no matter what the
difficulties? "'It is not good,' we are told, 'for a man to live alone,'
and please remember that there is no such thing as infallibility in
human nature. Sometimes temptations are so strong that one needs to be
superhuman to withstand them. Why expect too much of Life?" stared up at
Joyce from the page.
"I would not write as I am doing, believe me, dear Joyce," the letter
concluded, "if I were not so fond of you both that I feel your married
happiness a personal concern. It is the biggest thing in the world;
don't therefore, I implore you, gamble with it. If you will only look
ahead and think a bit of the future without the love of your
husband,--the grey years deprived of his tender devotion,--you will
realise how lonely will be your life! Dearest, hold on to the blessed
gift while it is yours and do not let it pass out of your possession. I
have watched it happen before! 'That what we have we prize not to the
worth whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, why, then we rack
the value, then we find the virtue that possession did not show us
whiles it was ours.' This is so true also of love which, so often, is
not appreciated while it is ours! And love can starve and die for want
of sustenance, which is propinquity and a proper response. You see, I
have kept my eyes open and am a silent student of human nature! I have
come across a few devils in society; but in my experience, 'The female
of the species is more deadly than the male,' and I believe the Lord's
prayer is directed chiefly against her. She goes out of her way to dig
pitfalls for the unwary and the best have been known to succumb. That is
why a wife's place should be beside her husband throughout life, as the
whole fabric of their happiness depends upon their unity. Separations
make for misunderstandings and division; so, whatever happens, come out.
Men and babies want looking after, and to my mind, Man is the greater
baby of the two, for he wants more than a nurse to care for his bodily
wants. He needs a wife with a combination of virtues, the chief among
them being _tolerance_. My mother's life has demonstrated this to me
with beautiful clearness, hence my understanding.
"You might be anxious at having to travel alone at such a time, but in
your place I would take any risk to be with my husband, if I loved him
deeply. That is the crux of the matter. Later on, conditions may become
still more difficult. Cable when you are leaving, and _don't hesitate_."
The appeal was very sincere, and thrilled Joyce with apprehensions. To
be urged to travel at the risk of capture by German raiders at large on
the high seas, that she might rejoin her husband without loss of time,
argued that something was seriously wrong. Honor was her true friend and
would not counsel such a step without reference to that husband, unless
something was decidedly wrong. Whom was she to obey? Her husband, who
had cabled to her to stay where she was? or Honor, who was urging her to
go out at once?
* * * * *
While Joyce pondered over her dilemma, the fate of two people dear to
her was being decided elsewhere.