The two girls, as had been already arranged, set off during the
morning for the river-side house at Bray, where they would be joined
next day by Lady Nottingham and the rest of her party; and Aunt
Jeannie, returning home shortly before lunch, found that Daisy and
Gladys had already gone, and that the hour for her consultation with
her friend was come. For the situation admitted of no delay: in a sky
that till yesterday had been of dazzling clearness and incomparable
serenity there had suddenly formed this thunder-cloud, so to speak,
hard, imminent, menacing. It was necessary, and immediately necessary
(such was the image under which the situation presented itself to her
mind), to put up a lightning-conductor over Daisy's room. It was the
nature of the thunder-cloud that she had now to make known to Lady
Nottingham: that done, between them they had to devise the
lightning-conductor, or approve and erect that one which she had
already designed in her mind during the sleepless hours of the night
before. It was of strange design: she hardly knew if she had the
skill to forge it. For the forging had to be done by her.
They lunched together, and immediately afterwards went to Lady
Nottingham's sitting-room, where they would be undisturbed, for she
had given orders that neither the most urgent of telephones nor the
most intimate of callers were to be admitted. They drank their
coffee in silence, and then Jeannie got up.
"I have got to tell you, Alice," she said, "about that which only
yesterday I said I hoped I should never be obliged to speak of to
anybody. I suppose the envious Fates heard me; certainly the words were
scarcely out of my mouth before the necessity arose. What I have got to
tell you about is that which all last autumn was harder for me to get
over, I think, than all that I had been through myself. Only yesterday I
believed it to be all dead; I believed it to be at most a memory from
which time had already taken the bitterness. But I was completely and
signally wrong. It is dead no longer; it is terribly alive, for it has
had a resurrection which would convert a Sadducee. It is connected with
the reason why Daisy can never marry Tom Lindfield. It is more than
connected with it; it is the reason itself."
Jeannie had begun to speak standing by the fireplace and facing the full
light of the window, but here she moved, and wheeling a chair with its
back to the light, sat down in it. She wanted to be a voice and no
more--a mere chronicle of a few hard, dry, irrevocable facts, things
that had happened, and could not be altered or softened. There was no
comment, no interpretation to be made. She had just to utter them; Alice
Nottingham had just to hear them.
"You may have to give me time, my dear," she said, "for it will be as
much as I can do, I am afraid, just to get through with the telling of
it. Yes, I am already frightening you, I know. I do that on purpose,
because I want to prepare you for a story that must shock and disturb
you very much. I wondered last night whether I could manage without
telling you, whether I could spare your hearing it all, but I find I
can't. I can't act alone in this, on my own responsibility. Perhaps you
may be able to think of some plan which will make mine unnecessary, and
I would give a great deal for that to happen. But some plan must be made
and carried out. Something has to be done."
She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then took them away,
and spoke, slowly and carefully, so that there might be no need for
further explanation of what she said.
"Of course you remember Diana, Daisy's sister," she said, "though
you would remember her more as a name than as a person, for I think
you never knew her at all well. She married very early, you know;
she married that nice Frenchman, Monsieur Dupre. After that she
lived abroad till the time of her death. The fact of that you will
certainly remember, though it is now some years since it happened.
Where are we? Yes, 1908. Then Diana died in 1903, five years ago. So
at least we were told at the time. It was in 1903 that we, all of
us, you, Daisy, and I, believed that Diana died."
Jeannie gave a long sigh.
"My story of why Daisy cannot marry Tom Lindfield has begun, dear
Alice," she said, "for Diana did not die then. She lived for four years
after that, and died last autumn only, in my arms, thank God! I thank
God, my dear, that she died, and I thank God that I was with her. There
was no one else, not her husband even."
Alice Nottingham turned on her a face that was puzzled, and was
beginning to get frightened.
"But what does it all mean?" she said. "It is very disquieting, very
strange, but what does it lead to? Daisy--Tom Lindfield."
"I am telling you as shortly as I can," said Jeannie. "Do not interrupt
me, dear. It was last autumn she died, not five years ago as we had
supposed. Five years ago she was--was found out, if you understand--she
was found to have been living with another man not her husband. He
learned that, and he forgave her, for he adored her with a tender,
unwavering devotion that is very rare. She was to him like a child who
has been naughty and must be forgiven. Then in a few weeks only after
that she fell again. Even then he did not divorce her, or make her bear
the shame and publicity of what she had done; he simply let her go."
Jeannie was still speaking slowly and quietly, as if reading out some
report which had to be mastered by her friend. But on the words "let her
go" her voice trembled a little. But then she again recaptured the
completeness of her self-control.
"Whether that was wise or not," she said, "whether it might not have
been better if he had let Diana bear the punishment that human law has
ordained for those poor things who behave as she behaved, we need not
inquire. Nor need I tell you the details of how it was all managed,
which I learned from Diana so few weeks before she died last year. It is
sufficient for me to say that they left their home near Amiens together,
ostensibly for a long foreign travel. After some weeks he sent home the
news of her sudden death; he sent the news also to us in England. You
were told, I and Daisy were told. And Diana, poor, poor Diana, went and
lived in Paris."
Again the bravely-suppressed emotion made Jeannie's voice to quiver.
"That is what I mean when I said that M. Dupre let her go," she said.
"Often I think it was a barbarous kindness. He could not live with her
any more--the fact that he loved her so much made that impossible--and
he had either to divorce her or--or let her vanish into the glittering
crowd of those who--who are made like that. He chose the latter: he
accounted for her disappearance by the news, sent to Amiens and sent to
us in England, that she had died.
"So five years ago Diana went to Paris, and for a time lived, not with
the man who had taken her from her husband, but with another. During her
married life she had lived in that beautiful country-house of his near
Amiens, seldom going to Paris, and no one apparently ever found out who
she really was. Then----"
Again Jeannie paused--paused a long time; and before she spoke she put
her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision.
"Then she left that man," she said, "and lived with another. You know
him; I know him; Daisy also."
It was as if Lady Nottingham had caught sight of that which made Jeannie
cover her eyes, for she winced and drew back.
"Don't--don't!" she said; "I can't bear that, please, Jeannie!"
At the sound of the beseeching voice Jeannie recovered all her
self-control. She was wanted; Alice wanted her for comfort.
"Oh, my dear, you must not be afraid," she said. "We have to face the
facts and not be afraid of them, but do our best, and see how we can
arrest or alter the train of their consequences. It was he--Tom
Lindfield."
Again she paused, and again continued, speaking quietly.
"I knew nothing of all this till a little over a year ago," she said;
"for even as M. Dupre had wished to spare Diana shame and publicity,
so, I suppose, he wished to spare us the knowledge of what Diana had
done, and it was thus that neither you nor Daisy nor I knew anything
of it. I think perhaps he ought to have told us--told you and me,
anyhow. But he did not, and it is of no use to think what we should
have done if he had. But rather more than a year ago Diana herself
wrote to me--wrote me a pitiful, heart-breaking letter. I thought at
first it must be some grim practical joke, though I could not imagine
who had played so cruel a trick, or why the trick had been played at
all. But it was Diana's handwriting, and she enclosed a photograph of
herself, which I have now. It was impossible to mistake that: nothing
could mar her beauty; and then it was signed and dated in her own
hand. She wrote to say that she had been ill, that she was getting
rapidly worse--it was of consumption, perhaps you remember, that her
mother died--and she wanted to know if I would come to her. She wanted
to tell me everything, and, thank God, she wanted me. So it was there
that I went when I left England last year.
"I stayed with her till she died in that little gilded flat. And during
that month she told me everything. It--it was a long story, Alice, and
it was all set to one shameful tune. And I was not shocked; that would
have made my being with her quite useless, to begin with, but, also, I
did not feel inclined to be shocked. She was so like a child--a child
that has gone wrong, if you will, but still a child. Whether she was
ashamed or not I hardly know, for after she had told me of it all we
never once spoke of it again. Certainly she wished, as passionately as
she was capable in her poor dying state of wishing anything, that she
should not bring shame or sorrow on others. Of all others that she
wished to spare, most of all she wished to spare Daisy; and--a promise
to a dying person is a very solemn thing--I promised that I would do all
that lay in my power so that Daisy should not know. Till yesterday I
thought that promise would never come up. But it has. Daisy must not
conceivably marry him. Also, she must not know why. There is our crux.
"And one word more, in justice to him," she added. "I am convinced he
does not to this day know who it was with whom he lived in Paris. He
knew me, for instance, and liked me; and I am sure he would not have
lived with her knowing who she was. Oh, but, Alice, the misery, the
sorrow of it all! You don't know. You weren't with Diana at the end. And
I loved her. And I think her--her going so utterly wrong like that made
me love her more. The pity of it! The hopeless, helpless sorrow of it!
She did not want to die----"
Jeannie's voice choked for a moment.
"She wanted life, she wanted love, poor child. She was like some
beautiful wild thing, without law. She didn't think. She never loved
her husband, who adored her. She didn't think. And she died
frightened--frightened at what might be in front of her. As if the
Infinite Tenderness was not in front of her! As if Jesus Christ, the
Man of many sorrows, was not there! Oh, Alice, how can we judge?"
"Ah, my dear, we don't judge," said she. "Anyhow, no judgment of ours
has any effect. It is done with as far as she is concerned."
Jeannie's face suddenly brightened into a semblance of a smile. It was
veiled, but it was but the flesh that veiled it; at the core it was
wholly loving.
"Then we are content to leave dear Diana in the hands of the Infinite
Pity?" she said. "That must be certain before we can talk further."
"But with my whole heart," said Lady Nottingham.
Again there was silence; and in that Jeannie openly dried the tears that
were on her face. She had been crying: there was no question about that.
"I had to tell you, dear Alice," she said at length. "I could not bear
it alone. You see why it is impossible, beyond the bounds of speech,
that Daisy should marry him. You see also why I thank Heaven that she
does not love him. At all costs, also, Daisy must not know why it is
impossible. That was my promise to Diana when she was dying. I would do
anything within my power and the stretched-out limits of it to prevent
her knowing. Diana, poor darling, wished for that. It was the last
request she made. It is sacred to me, as sacred as my honour."
"Do you mean to tell him?" asked Alice.
"I hope not to. I want to keep poor Diana's secret as close as can
be. And I am not in the least certain, from what I know of him, that
it would do any good. If he wants Daisy, do you think a man like that
would let that stand in his way? No, we must do better than that.
Now, is he in love with her?"
"I can't say. It is clear, however, that he wants to marry her. He has
been in love so many times that one doubts if he has been in love at
all. There was----"
"Oh, spare me the list of his conquests. He has been in love many times.
That is sufficient."
"Sufficient for what?"
"For the plan that has occurred to me as possible. I don't say it is
easy; I don't say it is nice; but we want, above all things, to keep
poor Diana's dreadful secret, to let no one, if possible--and, above
all, Daisy--know that it was her sister who lived those years in Paris,
and in that manner."
Jeannie got up.
"Clearly the easiest way of arriving at what we want is to make Daisy
think that he has only been flirting with her," she said--"that he is
not serious. It will hurt the poor child, I know; but if she were in
love with him, which you think she is not, it would hurt her far, far
more. Therefore, we must waste no time. Any day, any moment, she may
fall in love with him. He is extremely attractive."
"Do you mean you will tell Daisy that he has only been flirting with
her?" asked Alice.
"No, that would do no good. She would not believe it. Besides, any day
also he may propose to her. No, it must be more convincing than that.
She must see that which convinces her that he is not in earnest. We must
make him, if we can, under Daisy's very nose, flirt with somebody else.
We must make him neglect her. I don't know if it can be done, but we
must try. At least, I can think of no other plan which will not involve
telling Daisy all that we want to keep from her."
"But how--who?" asked Alice.
"He is coming to Bray--Lord Lindfield, I mean?"
"Yes; he is coming to-morrow evening with the others."
Jeannie paused in front of a mirror, looked long at herself, and spoke
to her image there.
"Yes, passable yet--just passable yet," she said to herself.
Lady Nottingham got up and came across the room to her.
"Jeannie, what do you mean?" she asked. "What is it you mean?"
Jeannie turned round quickly.
"Ah! you guess," she said. "I don't say it is nice; I shan't like myself
much, I can promise you. But it is not so long since he ran after me a
good deal. Perhaps you remember the fact. He didn't receive much
encouragement then. Well, I mean that he shall do it again. This time
he shall receive much more encouragement. I will make it very easy for
him. I will help him a great deal now. I will flirt with him all the
time at Bray. Flirt--yes. Oh, it is not a nice word, and flirts are not
nice people, as we settled only yesterday. We settled they were not
worth talking about. But I am going to be one now--and a bad one,
too--under Daisy's very nose. Perhaps I shan't succeed, but I shall do
my best; and if I don't succeed, we must try to think of something else.
But I want Daisy to see how easily and readily he makes love to a woman.
I want her to see herself slighted and neglected. I want her to be
hurt--and finally to be angry, to be furious, to see that he means
nothing. Then, provided only she is not in love with him now, she will
hate and despise him."
Jeannie spoke rapidly, excitedly, her face flushing.
"Or do you think it is a forlorn hope, Alice?" she said. "Am I but
flattering myself that I am not quite _passee_ yet? Oh, it is a heavy
handicap, I know, for a woman of my age to try to cut out a brilliant
young girl, and one who is beautiful; and, as you have told me, he
never, as far as you know, flirted with a girl. Well, that proves he
likes women best."
"Ah! but you can't do it, Jeannie," broke in Lady Nottingham. "Think of
what you will appear to Daisy; think of your own self-respect; think of
Victor. What will he make of it all? It is too dangerous."
"I have thought of all those things," said Jeannie. "I have weighed and
balanced them; and they seem to me lighter than that promise I made to
Diana. I may have to tell Victor; about that I don't know, but I shall
do my utmost not to. It may not be necessary, for, Alice, I think he
trusts me as utterly as I trust him. I think that if I saw him running
after some other woman I should feel there must be some explanation,
and I hope I should not ask him for it, or think he was faithless to me.
And I believe he has that trust in me also. I don't know. If he demands
to know what it all means I shall tell him, because if you are asked
anything in the name of love it is not possible to refuse. Heaven knows,
this is a desperate measure! But show me any other that has a chance of
success and will still keep Diana's secret. This may fail; one cannot be
sure of any plan going right. But show me any other plan at all, and
from the bottom of my heart I will thank you."
Lady Nottingham shook her head.
"I can think of no other plan," she said; "but I can't approve of this
one. You are playing with serious things, Jeannie; you are playing with
love and other people's souls. Diana did not mean you to do anything
like this in order to keep your promise to her."
"No, poor child! One does not easily see the consequences of one's acts,
or how they go on long after they are committed, bringing joy or sorrow
to others. Oh, Alice, there is such a dreadful vitality about evil. Acts
that one thinks are all over and dead have an awful power of coming to
life again. What one has done never dies. It may be forgiven--Heaven
grant it may be forgiven--but it exists still in the lives of others."
"But it is not as if she were alive," said the other, "or as if she
could suffer for it."
Jeannie shook her head.
"Ah, my dear," she said, "to my mind that is a reason the more for
keeping my promise. Living people can defend themselves to some extent,
or you can appeal to them and make them see, perhaps, that such a
promise involves more than it is reasonable to demand. But the dead,
Alice! The dead are so defenceless!"
Lady Nottingham was silent, knowing that it is useless to argue over
questions of feeling; for no amount of reasoning, however admirable, can
affect a question about which the heart has taken sides. And after a
moment Jeannie went on:--
"And it is not the dead alone," she said. "There is Daisy also to
consider. Had I made no promise at all, I think I would do anything as
distasteful and odious to me as that which I am going to do, for the
sake of keeping that dreadful knowledge from her. Alice, think if you
had had a sister like that! Could you ever get rid of the poison of it?
And it is an awful thing to let a young soul be poisoned. When we grow
older, we get, I suppose, better digestions; poisons affect us less.
That is the worst of growing old."
Again she paused.
"And now, dear--as they say at the end of sermons--let us talk no
more about it. You will see me in an odious role down at Bray; but it
will be something to know that you are aware it is a role, an odious
role assumed for a good purpose. I shall seem detestable to Daisy,
and she will not be able to believe her eyes, until she is forced to.
I shall seem charming to him, Tom Lindfield, until at the end, when,
as we hope, Daisy is convinced, I shall turn round like the flirt and
say, 'What do you mean?' I shall seem odious to myself, but I do not
believe I shall seem odious to Victor. I think he will know there is
something he does not understand. Perhaps I shall do it all very
badly, and not succeed in detaching him at all from Daisy. It is true
I have not had much practice, for I assure you I am not a flirt by
nature. Oh, Alice, can't you think of any other plan? I can't, and I
have thought so hard. Have you got a very large party? I don't want a
full house to witness this disgusting performance. I shall have to be
so cheap. I wish Victor was not going to be there. At least, I am not
sure. I think he will see he does not understand. It is bad luck,
you know, that of all men in the world this should be the one whom
Daisy thinks about marrying. Now let us dismiss it altogether."
Lady Nottingham felt a certain sense of injustice.
"Dear Jeannie," she said, "you have done all the talking, and, having
expressed your views, you say, 'Let us dismiss it altogether.' By all
means, if you choose; but I haven't had a chance. You have prophesied
success to your scheme; I prophesy disaster. You are not fitted for your
role; you will break down long before you accomplish anything. You will
see Daisy looking at you with reproach; you will see Victor looking at
you with wonder; you will see Lord Lindfield looking at you with--with
admiration. You won't be able to bear any of those things, least of all
the last. You will have some involuntary shudder of horror at him, or
you will obey your heart and run to comfort Daisy, and give it all
away. Yours is one of the schemes that don't come off, because they are
unthinkable."
But Jeannie interrupted again.
"You mustn't discourage me," she said, "because I want all the spirits I
am capable of to carry it through. It has to be done with a light heart,
else it will deceive nobody. And so, my dear, to-morrow you will say
'good-bye' to me, and have a sort of wraith of me instead for a little
while. Oh, Alice, I hope it won't take very long!"
The intense heat of the afternoon had a little abated, and after tea the
two drove out for a while, returning early in order to dine and go to
the opera. It began at eight, and Jeannie, after her year's sojourn in
the country, demanded a full dose, and they arrived before the beginning
of the first act. Outside it was still not quite the hour of sunset, and
the streets and houses were gilded by the soft reddish glow of the
superb summer evening. At the porch of the opera-house were a few men
standing about, clearly waiting for friends, and for that purpose
examining the disembarking carriages. As the two got out, one of these
gently but quite firmly shouldered his way towards them.
"Looking out for an acquaintance, I find a friend, Lady Nottingham," he
said. "That's my luck all over.--Why, Mrs. Halton! Have you the smallest
remembrance of me?"
Jeannie had seen him, and for one moment of weakness and indecision had
tried to pass by without seeming to recognize him. But it was impossible
to ignore this, and though she had hoped her role would not begin till
to-morrow, it was clear now that she must start to-day.
"Why, but how charming to see you, Lord Lindfield," she said. "I am
delighted. I am only just home, you know--or perhaps you don't, for why
should you? Do leave your acquaintance in the lurch, now you have found
a friend--it would have been prettier of you, by the way, to have said
two friends--and join us. Alice dear, carry Lord Lindfield off under
your cloak to the box. Kidnap him."
"Jove! yes, I'll be kidnapped," said he. "Kidnap me quick, please, Lady
Nottingham, because I see Mrs. Streatham's carriage. Too late; she sees
me. May I come up for--for an hour or two, after the first act?"
"Not for an hour, for two," said Jeannie, as Mrs. Streatham waved her
hand to him, but without a smile, for she was busy wondering who Mrs.
Halton was, and whether there was a chance of getting her to dine two or
three times during the next week.
Mrs. Streatham used her friends and acquaintances much as a clematis
uses the wires or trellis put up for it. She strongly and firmly climbed
along them (without ever letting go), to find fresh friends and
acquaintances.
"Who was that charming-looking woman you were talking to, Lord
Lindfield," she said, "with Lady Nottingham? By the way, you lunch with
us on Thursday, do you not?"
"Mrs. Halton," said he.
"Really! That sweetly pretty Miss--Miss Hanbury's aunt? Are she and Lady
Nottingham in the stalls? They might like to come to my box instead. It
is so far more comfortable in a box. Will you ask them? I do know Lady
Nottingham. She dined with us last year--at least, I asked her."
"They have a box of their own," said he.
"Ah, what a pity! Let us go in. I expect a few friends this evening, but
they will find their way. It is such a pity to miss a note of 'Faust.'
Oh, I see, it is 'Lucia.' That is by Gounod too, is it not?"
Three hours later they were all standing in the vestibule waiting for
the arrival of carriages. Mrs. Streatham had been unable to arrange
anything definite with regard to Mrs. Halton lunching with her, but
had just said she would write, and hope to find her disengaged the
week after next, when her carriage was bawled out. Lord Lindfield
shut her firmly into it, with profuse thanks, and returned to the
others. Crowds of people--some of whom, apparently, Mrs. Streatham
did not know by sight--had swarmed into her box during the evening,
and he had spent most of it in Lady Nottingham's without any sense of
deserting his hostess, since it was impossible even to stand in her
box, far less sit down.
Then Lady Nottingham's carriage had come up too, and he put them into
it.
"Till to-morrow, then," said Jeannie. "I am looking forward to it
immensely. You lunch with us first, and then take me to the concert."
The motor bubbled and slid off, and she put down the window.
"It moves," she said laconically.