"Cumly, _September 30, 19--_.
"Dear Captain Blair,
"Martin is engaged to Grizel Dundas. She is giving up thirty thousand a
year to marry him, and he is going to let her do it. I sent Dorothea a
cutting from the newspaper, which no doubt you have seen, so I need not
enlarge upon the details of a `millionaire's extraordinary will,' and
the subsequent `Romantic engagement. Millionaire's heiress gives up her
fortune to marry well-known novelist.' (See _Morning Post_.)
"The marriage is to be in January, and we are house-hunting, answering
letters of congratulation, looking at patterns, discussing dresses and
wallpapers, and hats, and carpets, and what to do with drawing-room
walls, and where to find new places for such trifles as sideboards, and
buffets, and bookcases, and maiden sisters... They'll fit in somewhere,
I suppose, and look fairly comfortable and at home in their new
positions, but it will take a little settling down! The sideboard was
made especially to fit a niche here; the maiden sister thought she was,
too, but they've both got to move, and look distrustfully upon new
corners.
"Grizel spent a week with us, then went off on a round of visits. She
has left the old house and given up her claim to the money at once, so
as to avoid all appearance of `making a purse' for Martin's benefit.
They are preposterously happy, and have each explained to me most
carefully that the other is _so_ anxious for me to live with them, and
confessed that from their _own_ standpoint it might perhaps be better--
for a time at least ... and I have relieved their feelings, poor dears,
by proclaiming at once that nothing could bribe me, either sooner or
later.
"Now, Lonely Man, go down on your knees and thank Providence, fasting,
that you are not a woman! You've done it heaps of times before, but do
it once again. No man in the world could find himself in such a
position as I am in at this moment, at twenty-six, _past_, after doing
my duty in my appointed place for a painstaking eight years. For what
have I gained--in what single way have I prepared myself for the journey
ahead? I can keep house satisfactorily on a satisfactory income, but I
shall have no house to keep; I can train servants, but I shall have no
servants to train. In any case I could have learned as much in one
year, and I've wasted eight! Not _wasted_, you'll say, as it was an
obvious duty to look after Martin's home, but the fact remains that the
years have gone by, and left me at the end, adrift, with the alternative
of living on charity, or working for myself, and no work that I can do!
Too young to be a housekeeper, too old to begin a training.
"It is a big problem, and must be gripped. I have many invitations,
enough to fill six months at least, but I've refused them all! I can't
frivol with that big question unsolved, so I'm going away quietly by
myself to think it out. The friends here are keenly interested, and
proffer advice, tinctured with consolation as follows: `Have you ever
thought of dispensing? I knew a girl who had such a good post, and
married the doctor. Of course you will marry, too, dear!'--`I'm told
there's quite a big income to be made out of fashion designing' (Can't
draw a line!). `Then you could go on with it at home if you married a
poor man. Of course you'll marry.' ... `You might be a matron at
Eton...' (Might I?) `How would you like to be a Cookery Demonstrator?'
(Not at all!) `So useful when you marry.'--`Charity Organisation Offices
need Secretaries. Couldn't you get your brother to get the Bishop to
write to say you'd be suitable?' (Story-teller if he did! I shouldn't.
Too much sympathy, and too little judgment, I'd give them money on the
sly!)
"`Dear Katrine! promise me _one_ thing,--that you will _not_ be tempted
to go on the stage!' (Vicar's wife having seen me act charades at a
mild tea fray.) `Wait patiently and trustfully, performing faithfully
the little duties that arise, and in good time...' (_She means the
curate_!!)
"Oh, dear, it's funny, but I'm not laughing. I'm trying not to cry. In
the horrid, ungrateful way we have, I realise for the first time how
well off I've been; how comfortable, and snug, and independent,
and--_necessary_! That's the crux of it all. I _was_ necessary--now
I'm superfluous!
"Well! here I am, you see, for the first time in twenty-six years really
at grips with life, about to experience for myself the troubles and
perplexities which so far have been mere matters of hearsay! I growsed
and grizzled about the dulness of monotony, now I'm to taste uncertainty
for a change. It may be very good for me; the vicar's wife says--
confidently!--that it will be. I can imagine myself pouring forth the
most inspiriting sentiments to my next-door neighbour, similarly bound,
but when _You_ write to me, _don't_ be inspiriting! I pray you, _don't_
make the best of it! Say that it's an unjust world; that brothers have
_no right_ to get married, and chuck their sisters; that it's
confoundedly hard lines, and that I'm a hardly used, unappreciated,
despised, abandoned angel and martyr. That will buck me up, and give me
courage to go on!
"But I want you to know one thing! If I could alter everything by a
wave of the hand, nothing would induce me to do it! To see the cloud
lifted, to watch blank eyes grow deep, and sweet, and satisfied again,--
that's a wonderful thing, and it would be a pigmy soul who did not
rejoice. So think of me as I am, _really_ happy, and truthfully
thankful, but naturally a little agitated as to personal plans. Here's
an excitement for you! Guess what I'll be, when you hear from me next!
"Superfluously,
"Katrine."
Cable message from Dorothea Middleton to Katrine Beverley:
"_October 10, 19--_.
"Come immediately year's visit. Cable dates."
Reply cable from Katrine Beverley to Dorothea Middleton:
"_October 11, 19--_.
"Regret quite impossible. Thanks."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Lebong, _October 23, 19--_.
"Dear Katrine,
"So you have refused Dorothea's invitation to come out to her for the
next year. She, poor girl, is surprised and hurt; I, on the contrary,
am neither one nor t'other. I knew it; felt it in my bones; could have
drafted beforehand your reply--and what's more, dear, I know precisely
by what train of argument the refusal came about!--I--Jim Blair--am the
bogie! You are saying to yourself: `A year ago I should have gone. It
would have seemed the obvious thing to go to Dorothea. Her
companionship, and the novelty of the surroundings would have been my
best medicine and cure, but now it's impossible! There's that man! ...
Behind the friendly import of his letters, there's something else, the
which I have strenuously ignored, but I have recognised it all the same.
If I went out now, leaving Martin married and content, he would
think,--that man would think,--imagine,--perhaps even (he's audacious
enough!)--_Expect_! ... My presence would give ground to these
expectations. Therefore, Q.E.D., as a modest, self-respecting damsel I
cannot go! I must stay at home. I shall be dull; I shall be lonely; I
shall be disappointed,' (You _would_ be disappointed, Katrine!) `But my
self-respect will be preserved. No man shall ever have it in his power
to say that I have travelled to the end of the world "on appro,"--that I
have deliberately thrown myself in his way. Sooner a hundred times
death or life-solitude! The question is settled. Let it rest. Selah!'
"Are you angry, dear? Are your cheeks red? Is there a light burning in
those deep eyes? I'll bet there is, and don't I wish I could see it!
Don't be hurt with me for divining the workings of your mind. I'll make
a clean breast of my own in return...
"I _do_ think! I _do_ imagine! I _do_ expect! It's not a new phase,
it began a couple of years ago, when I fell in love with the portrait of
a girl's face, and the portrait of the girl herself, as portrayed in her
weekly letters. And I diagnosed the position from those letters, and
thinks I:--`That Martin fellow will soon break loose, he's coming to
life with a rush;--that little girl's billet is about run out. She will
be needing another, one of these days. _I could give her another_!'
And I set myself to pave the way.
"So there it is, Katrine; you have it at last--the full and free
confession of a man, who, bereft of force, resorted to guile wherewith
to win a wife...
"I've been sitting for a quarter of an hour staring at that last word,
and _thinking_!
"It seems an extraordinary term to use in connection with a woman one
has never seen, but I know _you_, we know each other, better than half
the couples who go to the altar. It's no good reminding me that this is
only the fourth time I have written to you. I know that perfectly well,
but will you kindly recollect that I have been sharing in letters
written by you for the last six years, besides which, of course, I have
had the advantage of hearing constant descriptions from Dorothea's lips.
It's more difficult for you; don't think I minimise that! If I seem
wanting in consideration it is _only_ seeming; I realise only too well
how hard it must be for you, poor, proud little girl. But you must
come, you know! There's no way out of that. Be sensible, Katrine.
Don't get angry! Sit down and let me talk to you quietly, and show you
how the question appears to me...
"I have never wanted to marry a woman before, though I've met scores of
nice girls. I never felt for one of them the sympathy, the affinity I
know for you. You are not in love with me; I don't expect it for the
moment, but you are interested; so far as you've gone, you like and
approve. You've shown that in your letters, and are honest enough to
admit it now. Then why not give me a chance? Is there anything
derogatory to a sane woman's dignity in meeting, at his own request, and
on perfectly free, unconditional terms, a man who loves her, and wishes
to make her his wife? You know there is not.--I ask for no promises;
nothing but the chance to meet you on an ordinary friendly footing. If
it eases the way, I promise to say no word of love for, shall we say
three months? I'd prefer _weeks_--but it's your verdict.
"I want you, Katrine! I need you! I want a tangible, flesh and blood
love, instead of its shadowy substitute. I want to take you in my arms,
and hold you close till the red burns in your cheeks. I want to look
down into those deep eyes, and to see them look back into mine. I want
to stroke that curly hair, and to kiss those lips. Most of all I want
your lips. I hunger to love, and I hunger to be loved. The thought of
your coming would be like life; your refusal, blackness like death.
"Is there a soul at home in England who can say as much? And if not,
are you justified, Katrine, in sacrificing me to your pride? You won't
do it. You can't do it! Come to me, Katrine!
"J.C.D. Blair."
"Cumly, _November 20, 19--_.
"Dear Captain Blair,
"I have received your letter. What can I say? Honestly, I have tried
to weigh your arguments,--not calmly,--that is impossible, but
unselfishly, thoughtfully, from every point of view, and indeed, and
indeed, I can't alter my decision!
"I hate the thought of giving you pain; I hate it so much that I will
confess that it gives me pain also. I want to give in, and say yes; I
want to leave behind the pain and the jar of the last few years, and
sail out into the sun,--to see Dorothea, and yes! to see _you_ too; to
continue our friendship face to face. I could waive the shyness, waive
the pride; what I cannot do is to waive the _risk_! You are a man; you
see, man-like, only the plain, obvious facts; you don't realise, as a
woman does, the hundred and one difficulties and risks. You say that
you love me, and you _do_ love the imaginary Katrine whom you have
created out of paper and ink. What you don't realise is how tiny a
difference between the real and the imaginary might turn that love to
disillusion. I'm honest in my letters; I don't pretend; Dorothea has no
doubt told you my faults as well as my virtues; my photographs are not
flattered; because I am young, and healthy, and alert, I am
better-looking in real life, yet if I walked into your room at this
moment looking my utmost best, you might still feel a shock of
disappointment! You might acknowledge that this woman was handsomer,
finer, in every way more personable than you had imagined, but that
would not soothe the disappointment. She had made unto yourself a
dream, and she was not your dream!
"Such a little thing can do it,--a little inconsequent thing, a tiny
personal peculiarity, a trick of manner, an expression, a _look_. It's
not a question of whether it is beautiful and admirable in itself; it is
a question of _attraction_, the indefinable, all-important attraction
about which there can be no reasoning, no appeal.
"We discussed it before--do you remember? I told you there was every
conceivable reason why I _should_ have loved one man who wanted me, but
there it was,--impossible! and nothing could alter it.
"If we had met in the ordinary way, as strangers, we should have been
able to test the presence or absence of this attraction in a simple,
natural fashion,--now, the realisation of its failure on either side
must bring with it misery and embarrassment.
"Honestly, I can't answer for myself. I _do_ like you! There have been
times--my loneliest times--when I have almost _loved_ Jim Blair,--the
Jim Blair of my dreams, but how am I to know that he is anything like
you? The face which looks at me from beneath the white topee in the
various groups which Dorothea has sent is vague enough to lend itself to
mental adaptation, the real one may be a very different thing!
"If I could see you for even five minutes, face to face, I could tell if
it were _possible_; but as things are, I can't, and I dare not cross the
world on the chance. I must find a niche at home, and work hard, and
try to be of some use in the world. Perhaps some day, say on your next
furlough, we may meet, if you still wish it, but in the meantime it
would be better not to write. After what you have said, I should feel
it unfair. The best thing you can do is to forget.
"Don't think me unkind. It seems brutal to write so coldly, especially
to-day, when I have just received a letter from Captain Bedford in
Egypt, and with it the most wonderful old brass tray--quite the finest
specimen of its kind that I have seen. He explains that it is your
commission, and sends me quite a genealogical tree of its history. From
his letter he sounds a charming man. He says he returns in March. If I
had been coming out, we might have travelled by the same boat...
"Oh, Jim, I _wish_ I could come--I wish I could! It's hard work looking
on, and feeling eternally number three. Do you think I don't want to
love too, and to be loved? Do you think it is easy to say `no,' and
throw away the chance? If only I could think it right! It is not pride
which is hindering me, truly it isn't, it is more like cowardice. We
have defied convention, and as a result have created an impossible
situation, and I shrink from the probable pain and disillusion of a
meeting in the flesh. Your letters have meant a great deal to me; I
don't know how I should have come through the last few months without
them. For my own sake I should not regret the episode, but it has been
hard on you. At the bottom of my heart I guessed all along that it
would lead to this. I _pretended_ that I did not, and deliberately shut
my eyes, and now I must pay up. I care for you too much to run any more
risks. I won't write again, and please don't answer this. You will
hear of my doings through Dorothea, and I shall always care to hear
about you; so it is not like saying good-bye.
"Don't be angry with me, I'm very miserable!
"Katrine."
"Lebong, _December 10, 19--_.
"Katrine,
"I'm not angry, dear girl--but you've got to come! Every word that you
write only makes me the more fixed in my determination. I can
understand your shyness and your pride, but I'm hanged if I can
understand all this business about disillusion and humiliation. If you
find on investigation that I'm not the man for you, I shall regret it,
but I shall feel no humiliation. Why should I? The fact that I do not
please your taste, makes me no less a man, nor worthy of esteem. If--by
a strength of imagination--I were disappointed in you, the situation
would, I admit, be more charged, but being `only a man,' I emphatically
deny your assertion that the sentiment which you have evoked could be
evaporated by any outward feature or trait. My dream woman is very
dear, but, have no delusions on the point--she is not perfect! I have
created for myself no plaster saint. You have plenty of faults, my
dear, but there is this big difference between them, and those of any
woman in existence--they are _Katrine's_ faults!
"I have given my word to speak no word beyond those of friendship for
three months after your arrival. If you then decide that I am
impossible as a husband, you need fear no unpleasantness. I'll clear
out, exchange into another regiment, apply for leave. You shan't be
troubled. After that three months' trial, I'll take your answer as
final, and leave you in peace. I've no desire to badger a woman into
being my wife. But I demand my chance!
"I think you will come, Katrine. Putting myself out of the question, I
think you will come, and I'll tell you why. It would be rank
selfishness on your part to stay in England for the present! Martin has
had a rough time of it, but life is opening out for him afresh, and if
you love him you won't stand in his way. How do you suppose he will
feel if you are wandering about from boarding-house to boarding-house,
or working among strangers? The thought of you will be a continuous
shadow over his sun, and that's what you have no right to be, if there
is any legitimate way of avoiding it. Real happiness is a rare thing,
it is holy ground, which ought to be sacred from our touch. I'd as soon
cut off my right hand as cloud a man's joy in his new-made wife.
"And after Martin there's Dorothea.
"It's not a lively life for a woman in a small hill station. It grows
monotonous, meeting year after year the same people. Dorothea's a brave
woman, but the life tells. The boy is delicate also. There's a talk of
sending him home to his grandmother. Dorothea won't leave Middleton;
she considers that he needs her more than the child, and I think she is
right, but it will be a pill. There's nothing on earth which could
cheer and help her more than a visit from you. She has written to you
again I know. This time you must not refuse. The climate up here is
quite reasonable. You will have no great heat to face.
"And so, dear, I think you will come! I _know_ you will come, and, God
willing, you shall not regret it.
"That's a good idea about Bedford! He's a capital chap, and would look
after you well. We must see that that comes off. He will stay in Egypt
till the last moment, I fancy, and join the ship at Port Said, but,
you'd still have ten days together, and he would be useful on landing.
He is a good thirty-five, staid, and level-headed. It's quite
conventional, I suppose? I never know about these things. Book your
passage in good time, and cheer Dorothea by the news. Write at once,
no! in my present state of health I don't feel up to waiting five whole
weeks. I have _not_ been fit--feverish, sleepless--so am not in the
mood for patience. Cable just one word--the name of the steamer--to our
code address. When I read that I'll know that your passage is booked.
"Oh, my Katrine--sorry! I'll be more careful--
"Yours,
"J.C.D. Blair."
Cable message from Katrine Beverley to Dorothea Middleton: "Accept
invitation. Sail by _Bremen_."