What a contrast from the little schoolhouse, though it was so much more
decorated than a schoolmistress’s little sitting-room has any right to
be, or from the drab drawing-room at the Rectory! The more one became
acquainted with Mrs. Swinford’s boudoir, the more exquisite it appeared.
Those little water-colours which were hung on the walls were worth a
small fortune, and a crowd of collectors would have appeared like ravens
on the scene if it had been suggested that they could be sold: and the
little Italian cabinets between the windows, with their delicate
inlayings of ivory--not like the untrained beauty of the East, but
fanciful and varied as a dream--were almost as valuable. And then the
tempered, delicious warmth, and the softened, delightful light! Yet I
think (though, of course, she would not have endured them for a day)
that the roughest wooden furniture, and the shabbiest surroundings would
have been a sort of relief--for the moment at least--to Mrs. Swinford.
She surrounded herself with all these beautiful things, and then she
hated them. They never varied, they were lovely and novel for a moment,
and then there they hung for years, and never changed. How tired she was
of them all! To have broken the delicate frames, and torn up a picture
here and there, which was only a piece of paper after all, would have
given her a sensation. And yet that would not have done much good; it
would have left a visible blank on the wall, which it would have been
necessary to fill up, searching far and near through all the studios to
find something that would fill its place--which would keep a little
movement in life for a short time. But it would be ludicrous to tear up
a picture for that reason, and ridicule was more unbearable even than
weariness. On this particular occasion, however, the room looked
brighter even to her than usual. It was again an evening of soft-falling
spring rain. The skies had been one unbroken gray all the afternoon. The
soft small flood fell almost unseen over the country, making the young
foliage, which did not dislike the wetting, glisten, and washing the
colour out of the lilacs, and covering the ground under the fruit-trees
with fallen white petals, almost like snow. A day which the lonely lady
thought, if ever by chance she glanced from her window, was enough to
account for any suicide. And she had been reading the greater part of
the day, reading, save the mark! exciting French novels, in which all
the ways of breaking the seventh commandment were dwelt upon to the
sickening of any appetite. Even Mrs. Swinford, who considered that the
chief occupation of life, was a little sick of one after another. The
delicacy of the analysis of sentiment, etc., palled upon her after hours
of such reading. She would have liked, perhaps, even at her age, if some
gay Lothario had entered her boudoir, and led her, or tried to lead her,
into those paths which relieve the idle soul: but only to look on while
one woman after another was led astray! The books were like the room,
her habitual reading as it was her habitual scene; and she would have
declared it impossible to exist without the one and the other. But even
to her accustomed faculties it became sickening at the last. Was that
life any more than the boudoir was life? It was impossible for any
drudge to have been more sick of her toil and wretchedness than Mrs.
Swinford was of her existence, if this were all.
But at the moment of distraction Artémise arrived, and everything for
the moment became tolerable. She had thrown off her cloak and overshoes
in the other room; that the shock of seeing a damp woman, who had walked
through the rain, might not be given to the delicate lady within. And
Artémise truly enjoyed the difference in the atmosphere, and held her
feet to the fire, and breathed in the warm and balmy air with genuine
pleasure. ‘How comfortable you are!’ she said.
‘Comfortable! I am miserable--always and always!’ the great lady cried.
‘My dear, many people would be very glad to have the half of your
misery,’ said Mrs. Brown, ‘though I confess I agree with you more or
less. It would bore me to death. A fight with Mrs. Jones on the question
whether or not Lizzie is getting on with her lessons as well as she
ought, for the great sum of fourpence a week, is more agreeable to me.’
‘Are you going on with that dreadful work for ever, Artémise?’
‘No, I am afraid not. It is not that I dislike it, however. It is great
fun. You should see little Mab Pakenham, who has conceived some doubts
of me from what I have told her--so it is entirely my own fault--coming
down as grave as a judge to superintend the moral effects of my
teaching. She would not betray me for the world, but she is afraid of me
lest I should teach the girls principles unknown to Watcham.’
‘The little impertinent! She ought to look at home----!’
‘She does look at home, and that is what makes her so staunch. She comes
and superintends, but betrays me, never! However, as my morals might
prove too great a charge for little Mab, and as your son Leo has got on
my track----’
‘What, Leo--has got on your track, Artémise?’
‘Yes, that was rather fun, too. I saw him the other day watching me
through the bushes, and as I did not want to fall into his arms at that
little side door--which is so convenient--I turned and dodged him. His
patience was wonderful; he was resolved to have me. We played an amusing
game through and through the shrubbery, and then I took to the open,
thinking I was lost. But the rain was blinding, I suppose, and the dark
coming on, so I got off safe. Were you aware that he dined at the
Rectory one night?’
‘I heard he did not come in for dinner. I was not downstairs. It did not
concern me. At the Rectory--with that Plowden woman----’
‘And that Plowden girl. Do you know one of them is like her aunt? How
should you like it if Leo----’
‘You insult my son, Artémise.’
‘Ah well! There is never any telling; since he cannot have one, he may
content himself with the other. I have seen more wonderful things before
now.’
‘Who is the one he cannot have?’
‘My dear Cecile, why this tone of surprise? I told you before. Leo
thinks Lady William the most attractive woman he ever saw, and I do not
wonder. She was always attractive, even as a silly girl.’
‘How you insult me, Artémise!--a woman I hate, who has no right to that
name, and will soon be proved the impostor I have always known she was.’
Mrs. Swinford sat upright on her sofa, with a glow of anger on her face.
‘Then I had better hurry off,’ said Mrs. Brown composedly. ‘If she is to
be attacked, it is evident I cannot stay here.’
‘But you said it was the safest place,’ cried Mrs. Swinford in alarm,
‘that nobody would think, of looking for you in Watcham.’
‘It is no longer safe now that Leo is on my track, and little Mab full
of alarm as to my morality. She will not betray me, that little thing;
but some time or other she will make her mother come with her, to judge
if my teaching is all right.’
‘Then you must go, Artémise--you must go at once; though how I am to
live, in this dreadful place, with no one to care whether I am alive or
dead----’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Brown solemnly, ‘I have thought of that. You want
somebody to look after you. You will have to make up your mind between
two things, between the two greatest things in the world--love and hate.
If you hate her more than you love me, I will go. But you must remember,
it is not going to come back. I will have to disappear so entirely, that
no one will ever hear of me more. I can’t turn up again when you want
me, even by stealth, as I do now.’
‘Why, why?’ said Mrs. Swinford, who had uttered this question again and
again, while Mrs. Brown was speaking. ‘Why should you disappear
entirely? When it has blown over, when it is forgotten--everything is
forgotten after a while.’
‘Do you think Emily will forget a thing that means her honour, and her
child’s inheritance?--you have not forgotten, and it ought to be nothing
to you.’
‘Nothing! You know what it is to me, Artémise.’
‘Yes, I know what it is to you. It is hate and revenge--and do you think
your motives are stronger than hers? You want to pay off an old score,
but she wants to live respected and to provide for her child. She will
send detectives after me everywhere as soon as she knows. She will have
you watched so that I shall never be able to approach you. It will be
good-bye for ever between you and me, Cecile, if I am to carry out that
rôle----’
‘Artémise, you are too cruel! You know that I cannot live long without
you. You know that seeing you, having you at hand, is my only comfort. I
live only while you are here; for the rest of the time I only exist, I
vegetate, and hate the light----’
‘I know,’ said Mrs. Brown, in a slightly softened tone, ‘that you are
fond of me, Cecile; that I have been more or less necessary to you ever
since I was born. You must make up your mind, however, soon, for it will
certainly be as I say.’
‘No, no!’ said Mrs. Swinford, rising from her sofa, trailing her long
skirts after her from end to end of the beautiful room. ‘No, no! We will
leave this place; we will go to Paris, where we can be secure. There are
places there no detective would think of. Detective--an English
detective’--she laughed her tinkling intolerable laugh. ‘Bunglers all!
what do they ever find out? I tell you, Artémise, we can live there in
perfect safety, you and I together--and see our friends--and amuse
ourselves. All with you! Fancy what a changed life!’
‘On the edge of a volcano--for me.’
‘On the edge of no volcano--what could be done to you? Nothing! It is no
crime--and she would give it up very soon. She could not help herself,
she would have no money. These people will take even her allowance from
her--she will have nothing, nothing--not a penny, not a name; she will
have to work--she will not think much of detectives then; she will not
be able to go to law. No, Artémise; we shall live together, and you will
be safe, safe as a child.’
‘My dear Cecile! In the meantime if all this should come to pass, Leo
will marry Lady William, who will have no alternative but to accept him,
and it will be she who will have the revenge, not you. Stop a bit--and
he has plenty of money, and will never rest till he has found me out. He
will know well enough where to look. All that you know in Paris, and
more, he knows.’
Mrs. Swinford had kept saying ‘No, no, no!’ all the time. Her face
flushed, her eyes shone.
‘He shall not, he shall not! It will be with my curse. He shall never,
never do it,’ she cried. ‘I would rather he were dead.’
‘It does not matter much what you wish--your curse! you have not made
your blessing a thing to be desired, Cecile. Oh, I am not blaming you;
it is not my affair, but I don’t believe in the curse, you know. He will
do it, and the woman whom you have ruined will marry him, for she will
have no other resource. And Leo will find me wherever you hide me: no,
it is for you to choose--between love and hate, Cecile.’
‘I will never,’ she said between her closed teeth, ‘let that woman go.’
‘Then you choose hate? I knew you would,’ said Mrs. Brown, still
perfectly calm; ‘and now, my dear, you must hear me. For I never meant
to serve your hate all the time; I never meant to let Emily be ruined.
If she needs me I shall reappear. Yes, wherever I am. I am going away,
but I shall leave my address with Leo, or with Jim, or with----’
‘Artémise!’ she cried.
It was rarely that the sound of a raised voice was heard out of Mrs.
Swinford’s room. She had nobody there to excite her to anger, but on
this occasion she was no longer the sovereign in her own palace. It was
not rebellion that moved her, for Artémise had always retained her
independence; nor defiance, for nothing could be more quiet than Mrs.
Brown’s tone. It was the impatience of contradiction, the surprise at
opposition which a woman to whom everybody has yielded feels at the
first check, and the sound was so sharp and keen, and raised to such an
unusual pitch of surprised exasperation, that when a knock came
immediately after to the door, and Leo’s voice was heard asking ‘May I
come in?’ it was impossible for his mother to stop him with the languid,
‘No, I do not wish to be disturbed,’ with which she had often closed the
door upon him. Julie, the usual sentinel, had stolen away, believing her
mistress to be too much occupied to miss her--unhappy Julie when the
moment of retribution came.
There was not a word said. Mrs. Swinford had not recovered her composure
when her son opened the door.
‘You do not say anything; so I suppose I may come in,’ he said.
The man’s intrusion was strange in this chamber never intended for him.
A man and a son!--that is something different from a man and a brother.
Mrs. Swinford gave her visitor a sharp and meaning look, and then said:
‘What may you want, Leo, coming upon us in such a sudden way?’
‘Was I sudden? I heard you with some one, and I thought I might venture
also, as you were evidently talking. And here I find precisely the
person I wanted.’
‘Leo, you are very ill-bred. When you come to your mother’s room, which
is not very often, you might pretend, at least, that it was for her you
came.’
‘That surely goes without saying, mother. I was not aware when I came
that there was any one here.’
‘And you may be very well assured, Cecile, that at all events it was not
for the love of me.’
Mrs. Swinford returned to her sofa with an exclamation of impatience.
‘You have all your own objects,’ she said, ‘you are all pursuing your
own ends. There is no one who thinks what is best for me. Leo, we were
talking on private matters, women’s matters. Now that you have seen
Artémise, as you seem to have wished, your good sense will tell you that
it is best to go away.’
‘It was not from any desire to see her,’ said Leo. ‘Madame Artémise
knows very well what I should be likely to wish in that respect: nor to
talk to her, though she is so entertaining, but to know where I may find
her, for the sake of others.’
‘Oh yes, we all know what you mean. It is Emily Plowden you mean--it is
you who have been backing her up all this time against your mother. I
know you, Leo--that it should be against your mother, gives it a zest.
You make her think--poor thing!--that it is for her, while your real
desire is to expose your mother--to build her up in opposition to me.’
‘I think you must be dreaming,’ he said provoked. ‘Madame Artémise, was
it you I saw the other night in the shrubbery? Why did you run away?’
‘Do you call that running away? I wasn’t, however, displeased to have
had a little excitement for once. But you see I was not afraid of you,
for I have come back.’
‘I don’t know wherein the excitement lies,’ said Leo impatiently. ‘I
have a message to give you, that is all.’
‘You will give no message to Madame Artémise in my room.’
‘Are you mad, mother? Why should I not say what I have got to say? There
is nothing so sacred in your room. I respect your seclusion, and never
interfere; but surely when I find you with your chosen companion----’
‘She is my chosen companion. She is the only person who cares for me in
the world. She shall come here and live with me, and comfort me for all
the evil I have had to bear. She knows how I have been treated here, by
those who should have cherished me most. My husband, who never
understood me: my son, who has been beguiled from my side by my enemy.
Artémise knows all my miseries, every one. She has consoled me when I
have been at my worst. She shall come and live with me now, and be my
companion, as you say, or else----’
But then Mrs. Swinford paused. There had been a certain pathos and
dignity in her complaint. And she meant to add a threat, but instead
stopped short and looked her son in the face.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘you have always been the mistress of your own house,
and chosen your own company. You invite whom you choose here----’
‘Yes, I will invite whom I choose. Artémise shall stay with me, and we
will fill the house. Oh, it is not the time for the country, I know; but
later, later. Thank you, Leo, I will trouble you no longer. Send the
housekeeper here, I will give my orders; or Julie--Julie will give my
orders. You need not take any trouble. And we will not detain you any
longer; you must have affairs of your own that interest you more than
ours.’
Mrs. Swinford waved her hands and all her rings, dismissing her son, who
made a step towards the door.
‘Leo will stay a little longer, please. You are speaking very much at
your ease--mother and son: are you aware that this is a proposal that
has been made before, and that I have never consented to it? No, Cecile,
I will not live in your house--nor will I do your bidding, whatever it
may be, Leo. The schoolmistress of Watcham has her own humble duties to
perform, and she will perform them just as long as she chooses. She is a
woman not bound by rules in general, and who does not care for a
character from her last place, or anything of that sort. But at present
she cannot be spared from her duties, not even for the sake of the best
of friends who dispose of her so sweetly. She is not a woman to be
calculated upon or to be disposed of, except in her own way.’
‘Do you mean to say that you are the schoolmistress, Mrs. Brown?’
Leo had no inclination or desire to thwart her, or to disturb her in her
position. He commented to himself with secret satisfaction on the
inconsequence of the woman who thus gave herself up, so to speak, into
his hands. For all that he wanted he had now discovered, that is, where
she was to be found.
‘Yes; I am the schoolmistress, Mrs. Brown, whom you scared the other
day. Why should I have been scared and fled, and led you such a dance?
Because it amused me, Mr. Swinford: and I am here because it amuses me.
And I shall go away when I please, probably without giving notice. I
think, Cecile, if you will ring your bell, it would probably please Mr.
Morris, your dignified butler, to let me out to-night by the great
door.’
‘It rains,’ said Leo. ‘If you will permit me, Madame Artémise, I will
order the brougham to take you home.’
She made him another curtsey with a merry devil twinkling in her eye.
‘The poor schoolmistress! That will be the best joke of all,’ she said.