IDOL AND DEVOTEE
After drinking his coffee quickly--with no word to anyone the
while--Arthur had gone out of the room. Judith took up her book, Oliver
Wyse was glancing at the City article in a weekly paper, Bernadette sat
quiet in her high-backed arm-chair, looking very slight and young in her
white evening frock, but wearing a tired and fretful expression. Just
what she had planned to avoid, just what she hated, was happening or
threatening to happen. She felt herself in an atmosphere of suspicion;
she was confronted by accusers; she was made to witness her handiwork;
the sight and the sound of the shattered edifice menaced her eyes and
ears.
Glancing at her over his paper, Oliver saw that she was moody. He came
and tried to draw her into talk. She received him coldly, almost
peevishly. He had the tact not to press his company on her. "I think, if
you'll excuse me, I'll go and polish off some letters. Then I shall be
quite free for to-morrow," he said.
"Oh, yes, do, of course," she answered with what seemed relief. She was
angry now with him for having come back to Hilsey, and with herself for
having let him. "Will you go to the library?"
"You've given me such a delightfully comfortable room that I'll write
there, I think."
"As you like, and--I'm very tired--perhaps we'd better say good-night."
He smiled and pressed her hand gently. "Very well, good-night." She gave
him a glance half-penitent for her crossness, but let him go without
more. Judith accorded him a curt 'Good-night,' without raising her head
from her book. She was reading with wonderful industry; absorbed in the
book! Bernadette interpreted this as a sign of disapproval--it was more
probably a demonstration of non-responsibility for the ways of fate--but
it was not Judith's disapproval that particularly engaged her thoughts.
They were obstinately set on Arthur. How and what--how much--had he
found out? Enough to make him resolved not to go to London, anyhow, it
seemed! Enough to make him spring with swift suspicion to the conclusion
that she wanted him to go for her own purposes! And yet she had been
wary--and quite plausibly sage and prudent in her counsel.
"Where's Arthur?" she asked. "He's disappeared!"
"I don't know where he is," answered Judith from behind her book.
But he was more than suspicious. He was very angry. His last brusque
speech showed that, and still more the note in his voice, a note which
she had never heard before. It was of more than indignation; it was of
outrage. She could manage the others. Margaret presented no difficulty,
the sulky helpless husband hardly more; from Judith there was to be
feared nothing worse than satiric stabs. But if Arthur were going to be
like this, the next three days would be very difficult--and horribly
distasteful. He had touched her as well as alarmed her. Such an end to
her affectionate intimacy with him was a worse wound than she had
reckoned on its being. To see him angry with her hurt her; she had never
meant to see it, and she was not prepared for the intensity of feeling
which had found vent in his voice. It had been as bad as a blow, that
speech of his; while showing him sore stricken, it had meant to strike
her also. She had never thought that he would want to do that. Tender
regrets, propitiating memories, an excusing and attenuating
fondness--these were what she desired to be able to attribute to Arthur
when she was sailing on the summer seas.
"I wonder what's become of him! Do you think he's gone out, Judith?"
At last Judith closed her book and raised her head. "Why do you want
Arthur now?"
"I only wondered what could have become of him."
"Perhaps he's gone to pack--ready for to-morrow, you know."
"Oh, nonsense! Barber would pack for him, of course--if he's going."
Judith, book in hand, rose from her chair. "I think I shall go to bed."
She came across the room to where Bernadette sat. "You'd better too. You
look tired."
"No, I'm not sleepy. I'm sure I couldn't sleep."
Judith bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Never mind
Arthur. You'd better let him alone to-night."
Bernadette longed to ask "What have you said to him?" But she would not;
she shrank from bringing the matter into the open like that. It would
mean a scene, she thought, and scenes she was steadfastly purposed to
avoid--if possible.
"Well, he's behaving rather queerly, going on like this," she murmured
peevishly.
For an instant Judith stood looking at her with a smile in which pity
and derision seemed oddly mingled; then she turned on her heel and went
out.
Bernadette sat on alone in the big drawing-room; it was very silent and
solitary. The chill fancies of night and loneliness assailed her. Surely
nobody would do anything foolish because of--well, because of what she
did? She rejected the idea as absurd. But she felt uncomfortable and
desolate. She might send for Sir Oliver; no doubt he was at his letters
still, and it was not really late. Yet somehow she did not want him; she
was not in the mood. Her mind was obstinate still, and still asked
obstinately of Arthur.
At last she got up, went through the hall, and out on to the terrace.
She looked up and down the length of it. The night was fine and the moon
shone, but she saw no sign of him. She called his name softly; there was
no reply. Either he had gone further afield, or he was in the house. She
paused a moment, and then took her way along the corridor which led past
the dining-room to the smoking-room--an apartment seldom used in these
lax days (when every room is a smoking-room) and rather remote. Perhaps
he had retreated there. She stood for a moment outside the door,
hesitating at the last whether to seek him out. But some impulse in
her--friendliness, remorse, fear, curiosity, all had their share in
it--drove her on. Very softly she turned the handle and opened the door.
Yes, he was there. He was sitting in a chair by the table. His arms were
spread on the table, the hands meeting one another, and his head rested
on his hands. He did not hear the door she opened so gently. He looked
as if he were asleep. Then, softly still, she closed the door, standing
close by it. This time he heard the noise, slight as it was, and lifted
his face from his hands. When he saw her, he slowly raised himself till
he sat straight in his chair. She advanced towards him timidly, with a
deprecatory smile.
In disuse the room had grown dreary, as rooms do; the furniture showed a
housemaid's stiff ideas of arrangement; there was no human untidiness;
even the air was rather musty.
"Oh, you don't look very cheerful in here! Have you been asleep,
Arthur?" She sat herself sideways on the heavy mahogany writing-table.
He shook his head; his eyes looked very tired.
"I couldn't think what had become of you. And I wanted to say
good-night. We're--we're friends, aren't we, Cousin Arthur?"
"Where's Oliver Wyse?" he asked brusquely.
"Upstairs in his room--writing letters. He went almost as soon as you
did--but more politely!" Her smile made the reproof an overture to
friendship.
"I hate to see the fellow with you," he broke out fiercely, but in a low
voice.
"Oh, you mustn't say things like that! What nonsense have you got into
your head? Sir Oliver's just a friend--as you are. Not the same quite,
because you're a relation too. But still just a very good friend, as you
are. Is this all because I told you you ought not to neglect your work?"
"Why are you so anxious for me to clear out?"
"If you take it like that, I can't--well, we can't talk. I must just
leave you alone." She got down from the table and stood by it, ready, as
it seemed, to carry out her threat of going.
"I'll go to London--if you'll tell Oliver Wyse to come with me."
"He's only just come, poor man--and only for a few days, anyhow! I think
you've gone mad. Who's been putting such things in your head? Is
it--Godfrey?"
"You wouldn't be surprised if it was, would you?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, I should, though Godfrey is sometimes very absurd with his
fancies. I don't want to quarrel, but you really mustn't grudge my
having another friend. It's not reasonable. And if Sir Oliver does
admire me a little--well, is that so surprising?" She smiled coaxingly,
very anxious to make friends to-night, to part friends on the morrow.
"After all, aren't you a little guilty in that way yourself, Cousin
Arthur?"
"Not in the same----" he began, but broke off, frowning and fretful.
"I've spoilt you, but I never promised you a monopoly. Now be good and
sensible, do! Forget all this nonsense; go and do your work, and come
back next week."
He made no reply to her appeal; he sat looking at her with a hostile
scrutiny.
"Anyhow, you can't stay if you're going on behaving like this. It's
intolerable."
"I came here on Godfrey's invitation. If Godfrey asks me to go----"
"If you appeal to Godfrey, you're not a friend of mine!" she cried
hotly.
"Impossible to be a friend both of yours and of Godfrey's, is it?" he
sneered.
Her face flushed; now she was very angry. "Go or stay--anyhow I've done
with you!" She half-turned away, yet waited a moment still, hoping that
his mood would soften.
He leant forward towards her in entreaty. "Don't do it, Bernadette, for
God's sake! For your own sake, for the sake of all of us who love you!"
"Who loves me in this house?" she asked sharply and scornfully. "Am I so
much to any of them? What am I to Godfrey, for instance? Does Godfrey
love me?" She was glad to give utterance to her great excuse.
But his mind was not on excuses or palliation; they belonged to his old
feelings about her, and it was the new feeling which governed him now.
He stretched out his arm, caught one of her hands, and drew her towards
him almost roughly.
"I love you, Bernadette, I love you body and soul, I worship you!"
"Arthur!" she cried in amazement, shrinking, trying to draw back.
"When I see that man with you, and know what he wants, and suspect--It
drives me mad, I can't bear it. Oh, it's all damnable of me, I know! I
could have gone on all right as we were, and been happy, but for this.
But now, when I think of him, I----" With a shiver he let go her hands
and buried his face in his own again. His shoulders shook as though with
a sob, though no sound came.
She drew near to him now of her own accord, came and stood just beside
him, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "Cousin Arthur, Cousin
Arthur!" she whispered. All her anger was gone; sorrow for him swallowed
it up. "You're making a mistake, you know, you are really. You don't
love me--not like that. You never did. You never felt----"
He raised his head. "What's the use of talking about what I did do or
did feel? I know all that. It's what I do feel that's the question--what
I feel now!"
"Oh, but you can't have changed in four or five hours," she pleaded
gently, yet with a little smile. "That's absurd. You're mistaken about
yourself. It's just that you're angry about Oliver--angry and jealous.
And that makes you think you love me. But you never would! To begin
with, you're too loyal, too honest, too fond of--Oh, you'd never do it!"
"I had never thought of you as--in that way. But when I saw him, he made
me do it. And then--yes, all of a sudden!" He turned his eyes up to her,
but imploring mercy rather than favour.
She pressed his shoulder affectionately. "Yes, I suppose it's
possible--it might be like that with a man," she said. "I suppose it
might. I never thought of it. But only just for a moment, Cousin Arthur!
It's not real with you. You'll get over it directly; you'll forget it,
and think of me in the old pleasant way you used, as being----" With
another little squeeze on his shoulder she laughed low--"Oh, all the
wonderful things I know you thought me!" She suddenly recollected how
she stood. She drew in her breath sharply, with a sound almost like a
sob. "Ah, no, you can never think like that of me again, can you?"
He was silent for a moment, not looking up at her now, but straight in
front of him.
"Then--it's true?" he asked.
With a forlorn shake of her head she answered, "Yes, it's true. Since
you're like this, I can't keep it up any longer. It's all true. Oliver
loves me, and I love him, and all you suspected is--well, is going to be
true about us."
"If you'll only drop that, I swear I'll never breathe a word
about--about myself! I will forget! I'll go away till I have forgotten.
I'll----"
"Oh, poor boy, I know you would. I should absolutely trust you. But how
am I to--drop that?" She smiled ruefully. "It's become just my life."
She suddenly lifted her hands above her head and cried in a low but
passionate voice, "Oh, I can't bear this! It's terrible. Don't be so
miserable, dear Arthur! I can't bear to see you!" She bent down and
kissed him on the forehead. "You who've been such a dear dear friend and
comrade to me--you who could have made me go on enduring it all here if
anybody could! But Oliver came--and look what he's done to both of us!"
"You love him?"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Or how could all this be happening? You must believe
that. I didn't want you to know it--Yes, you were right, I was trying to
get you out of the way, I wasn't honest. But since things have turned
out like this, you must believe now, indeed you must."
For a full minute he sat silent and motionless. Then he reached up, took
her hand, and kissed it three--four--times. "God help me! Well, I'll go
to London to-morrow. I can't face him--or Godfrey. I should let it all
out in a minute. I can't think how you manage!"
To her too it looked very difficult to manage now. The revelation made
to Arthur seemed somehow to extend to the whole household. She felt that
everyone would be watching and pointing, even though Arthur himself went
away. She had grown fearful of being found out--how quickly Arthur had
found her out!--and dreaded her husband's surly questions. More scenes
might come--more scenes not to be endured! A sudden resolve formed
itself in her mind, born of her fear of more detection, of more scenes,
of more falling into disgrace.
"I expect Barber will have gone to bed--it's past eleven," she said.
"But you can give him your orders in the morning. And--and I shan't see
you. Be happy, dear Cousin Arthur, and, oh, splendidly successful! I'm
sure you will! And now go to bed and sleep, poor tired boy!"
"Oh, I can't sleep--not yet. This is good-bye?" His voice choked on the
word a little. He turned his chair round, and she gave her hands into
his.
"Yes, this must be good-bye--for the present at all events. Perhaps some
day, when all this is an old story, if you wish it----"
"Are you going away with him, or----?"
"Oh, going away! I must do that. You do see that, don't you? And Oliver
wouldn't have anything else. Try to think kindly and--and pleasantly of
me. Remember our good times, dear Arthur, not this--this awful evening!"
"I've been such a fool--and now such a blackguard! Because now if I
could, I'd----"
"Hush, hush! Don't say things like that. They're not really true, and
they make you feel worse. We're just dear old friends parting for a
while, because we must."
"Perhaps I shall never see you again, Bernadette--and you've been pretty
nearly everything in my life since we've known one another."
"Dear Arthur, you must let me go now. I can't bear any more of it. Oh, I
am so desperately sorry, Arthur!" A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Never mind, Bernadette. It'll be all right about me. And--well, I can't
talk about you, but you needn't be afraid of my thinking
anything--anything unkind. Good-bye."
She drew her hands away, and he relinquished his hold on them without
resistance. There was no more to be said--no more to be done. She stood
where she was for a moment; he turned his chair round to the table
again, spread out his arms, and laid his face on his hands. Just the
same attitude in which she had found him! But she knew that his distress
was deeper. Despair and forlornness succeeded to anger and fear; and, on
the top of them, the poor boy accused himself of disloyalty to his
house, to his cousin, to herself. He saw himself a blackguard as well as
a fool.
She could not help speaking to him once again. "God bless you, Cousin
Arthur," she said very softly. But he did not move; he gave no sign of
hearing her. She turned and went very quietly out of the room, leaving
her poor pet in sad plight, her poor toy broken, behind her.
It was more than she had bargained for, more than she could bear!
Silently and cautiously, but with swift and resolute steps, she passed
along the corridor to the hall, and mounted the stairs. She was bent on
shutting out the vision of Arthur from her sight.