The Fraylings had sent their children and the majority of their servants
back to Fraylingay the day after the wedding, but had decided to stay in
London themselves with Major Colquhoun until Evadne wrote to relieve their
anxiety, which was extreme, and gave them some information about her
movements and intentions.
Mr. Frayling spent most of the interval in prancing up and down. He
recollected all his past grievances, real and imaginary, and recounted
them, and also speculated about those that were to come, and mentioned the
number of things he was always doing for everybody, the position he had to
keep up and consider for the sake of his family, the scandal there would
be if this story got about; and described in one breath both his
determination to hush it up, and his conviction that it would be utterly
impossible to do so. Whenever the postman knocked he went to the door to
look for a letter, and coming back empty-handed each time, he invariably
remarked that it was disgraceful, simply disgraceful, and he had never
heard of such a thing in all his life. There was blame and severity in his
attitude toward poor Mrs. Frayling; he seemed to insinuate that she might
and should have done something to prevent all this; while there was a
mixture of sympathy, deprecation, and apology in his manner to his
son-in-law, combined with a certain air of absolving himself from all
responsibility in the matter.
Major Colquhoun's own attitude was wholly enigmatical. He smoked cigars,
read novels, and said nothing except in answer to such remarks as were
specially addressed to him, and then he confined himself to the shortest
and simplest form of rejoinder possible.
"The dear fellow's patience is exemplary," Mrs. Frayling remarked to her
husband as they went to bed one night. "He conceals his own feelings
_quite_, and never utters a complaint."
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Frayling, who scented some reproach in this remark;
"if the dear fellow does not suffer from impatience, and has no feelings
to conceal, it is not much marvel if he utters no complaint. I believe he
doesn't care a rap, and is only thinking of how to get out of the whole
business."
"Oh, my dear, how _dreadful_" Mrs. Frayling exclaimed. "I am sure you
are quite mistaken. You don't understand him at all."
Mr. Frayling shrugged his shoulders and snorted. He despised feminine
conclusions too much to reply to them, but not nearly enough to be wholly
unmoved by them.
Mrs. Frayling spent the three days in sitting still, embroidering silk
flowers on a satin ground, and watering them well with her tears. But on
the morning of the fourth day, by the first post, letters arrived which
put an end to their suspense. One was from Mrs. Orton Beg and the other
from Evadne herself. Mrs. Frayling read them aloud at the breakfast table,
and the three sat for an hour in solemn conclave, considering them.
Mrs. Orton Beg had had time to recover herself and reflect before she
wrote, and the consequence was some modification of her first impression.
"MY DEAR ELIZABETH:
"Evadne is here; she arrived this afternoon. On her wedding day she
received a letter from a lady, whose name I am not allowed to mention
here, but written under the impression that Evadne was being kept in
ignorance of Major Colquhoun's past life, and offering to give her any
information that had been withheld so that she might not be blindly
entrapped into marrying him under the delusion that he was a worthy man.
The letter arrived too late, but Evadne went off nevertheless on the spur
of the moment to make further inquiries, the result of which is great
indignation on her part for having been allowed to marry a man of such
antecedents, and a determination not to live with him. She wishes to stay
here with me for he present, and I am very glad to have her. I give her an
asylum, but I shall not speak a word to influence her decision in any way
if I can help it. It is a matter of conscience with her, and I perceive
that her moral consciousness and mine are not quite the same; but in the
present state of my ignorance, I feel that it would be presumption on my
part to set my own up as superior, and therefore I think it better not to
interfere in any way.
"You need not be in the least anxious about Evadne. She is quite well, has
an excellent appetite, and is not at all inclined to pose as a martyr. I
confess I should have thought myself she would have suffered more in the
first days of her disillusion, for she certainly was very much in love
with Major Colquhoun; but her principles are older than her acquaintance
with him, and ingrained principle is a force superior to passion, it
seems--which is as it should be.
"I am sorry for you all, and for you especially, dear, in this dilemma,
for I know how you will feel it; and I am the more sorry because I cannot
say a single word which would relieve the state of perplexity you must be
in, or be in any way a comfort to you.
"Your loving sister,
"OLIVE ORTON BEG."
Evadne's letter ran thus:
"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 4th October.
"MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:
"Aunt Olive has kindly written to tell you exactly why I am here, so that
my letter need only be a supplement to hers. For whatever trouble and
anxiety I may have caused you, forgive me. The thought of it will be a
pang to me as long as I live.
"Since I left you I have been fully informed of circumstances in Major
Colquhoun's past career which make it impossible for me to live with him
as his wife. I find that I consented to marry him under a grave
misapprehension of his true character--that he is not at all a proper
person for a young girl to associate with, and that in point of fact his
mode of life has very much resembled that of one of those old-fashioned
heroes, Roderick Random or Tom Jones, specimens of humanity whom I hold in
peculiar and especial detestation.
"I consider I should be wanting in all right feeling if I held myself
bound to him by vows which I took in my ignorance of his history. But I am
afraid there will be some difficulty about the legal business. Kindly find
out for me what will be the best arrangement to make for our separation,
and tell me also if I ought to write to Major Colquhoun myself. I should
like it better if my father would relieve me of this dreadful necessity.
"Until we have arranged matters, I should prefer to stay here with Aunt
Olive. I am very well, and happier too, than I should have expected to be
after the shock of such a disappointment, though perhaps less so than I
ought in gratitude to be, considering the merciful deliverance I have had
from what would have been the shipwreck of my life.
"Your affectionate daughter,
"EVADNE."
"Good Heavens! good Heavens!" Mr. Frayling ejaculated several times.
Major Colquhoun had curled his moustache during the reading of the letter,
with the peculiar set expression of countenance he was in the habit of
assuming to mask his emotions.
"What language! what ideas!" Mr. Frayling proceeded. "I have been much
deceived in that unhappy child," and he shook his head at his wife
severely, as if it were her fault.
Major Colquhoun muttered something about having been taken in himself.
After the reading of the letter, Mrs. Frayling's comely plump face looked
drawn and haggard. She could not utter a word at first, and had even
exhausted her stock of tears. All at once, however, she recovered her
voice, and gave sudden utterance to a determination.
"I must go to that child!" she exclaimed. "I must--I must go at once."
"You shall do no such thing," her husband thundered. He had no reason in
the world for opposing the motherly impulse; but it relieves the male of
certain species to roar when he is irritated, and the relief is all the
greater when he finds some sentient creature to roar at, that will shrink
from the noise, and be awed by it.
Mrs. Frayling looked up at him pathetically, then riveted her eyes upon
the tablecloth, and rocked herself to and fro, but answered never a word.
Major Colquhoun, with the surface sympathy of sensual men, who resent
anything that produces a feeling of discomfort in themselves, felt sorry
for her, and relieved the tension by asking what was to be said in reply
to Evadne's letter.
This led to a discussion of the subject, which was summarily ended by Mr.
Frayling, who deputed to his wife the task of answering the letter,
without allowing her any choice in the matter. It was never his way to do
anything disagreeable if he could insist upon her doing it for him.
But Mrs. Frayling was nothing loth upon this occasion.
"Well," she began humbly, "I undertake the task since you wish it, but I
should have thought a word from you would have gone further than anything
I can say. However,"--she ventured to lift a hopeful head,--"I have
certainly always been able to manage Evadne,"--she turned to Major
Colquhoun,--"I can assure you, George, that child has never given me a
moment's anxiety in her life; and,"--she added in a broken voice,--"I
never, never thought that she would live to quote books to her parents."
Mr. Frayling found in his own inclinations a reason for everything. He was
very tired of being shut up in London, and he therefore decided that they
should go back to Fraylingay at once, and suggested that Major Colquhoun
should follow them in a few days if Evadne had not in the meantime come to
her senses. Major Colquhoun agreed to this. He would have hidden himself
anywhere, done anything to keep his world in ignorance of what had
befallen him. Even a man's independence is injured by excesses. As the
tissues waste, the esteem of men is fawned for instead of being honestly
earned, criticism is deprecated, importance is attached to the babbling of
blockheads, and even to the opinion of fools. What should have been
self-respect in Major Colquhoun had degenerated into a devouring vanity,
which rendered him thin-skinned to the slightest aspersion. He had married
Evadne in order to win the credit of having secured an exceptionally young
and attractive wife, and now all he thought of was "what fellows would
say" if they knew of the slight she had put upon him. To conceal this was
the one object of his life at present, the thought that forever absorbed
him.
Mr. Frayling felt that it would be a relief to get away from his
son-in-law: "If the fellow would only speak!" he exclaimed when he was
alone with his wife. "What the deuce he's always thinking about I can't
imagine."
"He is in great grief," Mrs. Frayling maintained.
As soon as she was settled at Fraylingay she wrote to Evadne:
"MY POOR MISGUIDED CHILD:
"Your whole action since your marriage and your extraordinary resolution
have occasioned your dear father, your poor husband, and myself the very
greatest anxiety and pain. We have grave fears for your sanity. I have
never in my life heard of a young lady acting in such a way. Your poor
husband has been very sweet and good all through this dreadful trial. He
very much fears the ridicule which of course would attach to him if his
brother officers hear what has happened; but so far, I am thankful to say,
no inkling of the true state of the case has leaked out. The servants
talk, of course, but they _know_ nothing. What they suspect, however,
is, I believe, that you have gone out of your mind, and I even ventured to
suggest something of the kind to Jenny, who, after all these years, is
naturally concerned at the sight of my deep distress. I assure you I have
taken nothing since your letter arrived but a little tea. So do, dear
child, end this distressing state of things by returning to your right
state of mind _at once_. You are a legally married woman, and you
must obey the law of the land; but of course your husband would rather not
invoke the law and make a public scandal if he can help it. He does not
wish to force your inclinations in any way, and he therefore generously
gives you more time to consider. In fact he says: 'She must come back of
her own free will.'
[Footnote: What he did say exactly was: "She went of her own accord, and
she must come back of her own accord, or not at all. Just as she likes.
_I_ shall not trouble about her."]
And he is as ready, I am sure, as your father and myself are, to forgive
you freely for all the trouble and anxiety you have caused him, and is
waiting to welcome you to his heart and home with open arms.
"And, Evadne, remember: a woman has it in her power to change even a
reprobate into a worthy man--and I know from the way George talks that he
is far from being a reprobate now. And just think what a work that is! The
angels in heaven rejoice over the sinner that repents, and you have before
you a sphere of action which it should gladden your heart to contemplate.
I don't deny that there _were_ things in George's past life which it
is very sad to think of, but women have always much to bear. It is our
_cross_, and you must take up yours patiently and be sure that you
will have your reward. _Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth_. I wish
now that I had talked to you on the subject before you were married, and
prepared you to meet some forms of wickedness in a proper spirit; you
would not then have been at the mercy of the wicked woman who has caused
all this mischief. She is some clever designing adventuress, I suppose,
and she must have told you dreadful things which you should never have
heard of at your age, and I suspect that jealousy is at the bottom of it
all. She may herself have been cast off in her wickedness for my own sweet
innocent child's sake. When I think of all the happiness she has
destroyed, of these dark days following such bright prospects, I could see
her _whipped_, Evadne, I could indeed. Everything had arranged itself
so beautifully. He is an excellent match. The Irish property, which he
_must_ have, is one of the best in the country, and as there is only
one fragile child between him and the Scotch estates, you might almost
venture to calculate upon becoming mistress of them also. And then, he
certainly is a handsome and attractive man of most charming manners, so
what more do you want? He is a good Churchman too. You know how regularly
he accompanied you to every service. And, _really_ if you will just
think for a _moment_, I am sure you will see yourself that you have
made a terrible mistake, and repent while it is called today. But we do
not blame you entirely, dear. You have surprised and distressed us, but we
all freely forgive you, and if you will come back at once, you need fear
_no_ reproaches, for not another word will _ever_ be said on the
subject.--I am, dear child,
"Ever your loving mother,
"ELIZABETH FRAYLING."
"P.S.--Your father is so horrified at your conduct that he declares he
will neither write to you nor speak to you until you return to your duty."
Evadne took a day and a half to consider her mother's letter, and then she
wrote the following reply:
"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 9th October.
"MY DEAR MOTHER:
"I answer your postscript first, because I am cut to the quick by my
father's attitude. I was sure that, large-minded and just as I have always
thought him, he would allow that a woman is entitled to her own point of
view in a matter which, to begin with, concerns her own happiness more
than anybody else's, and that if she accepts a fallen angel for a husband,
knowing him to be such, she shows a poor appreciation of her own worth. I
am quite ready to rejoice over any sinner that repents if I may rejoice as
the angels themselves do, that is to say, at a safe distance. I would not
be a stumbling block in the way of any man's reformation. I only maintain
that I am not the right person to undertake such a task, and that if women
are to do it at all, they should be mothers or other experienced persons,
and not young wives.
"I am pained that you should make such a cruel insinuation against the
character and motives of the lady whom I have to bless for my escape from
a detestable position. But even if she had been the kind of character you
describe, do I understand you to mean that it would have been a triumph
for me to have obtained the reversion of her equally culpable associate?
that I ought, in fact, to have gratefully accepted a secondhand sort of
man! You would not counsel a son of yours to marry a society woman of the
same character as Major Colquhoun, and neither more nor less degraded, for
the purpose of reforming her, would you, mother? I know you would not. And
as a woman's soul is every bit as precious as a man's, one sees what cant
this talk of reformation is. It seems to me that such cases as Major
Colquhoun's are for the clergy, who have both experience and authority,
and not for young wives to tackle. And, at any rate, although reforming
reprobates may be a very noble calling, I do not, at nineteen, feel that I
have any vocation for it; and I would respectfully suggest that you,
mother, with your experience, your known piety, and your sweet
disposition, would be a much more suitable person to reform Major
Colquhoun than I should be. His past life seems to inspire you with no
horror; the knowledge of it makes _me_ shrink from him. My husband
must be a Christ-like man. I have very strong convictions, you see, on the
subject of the sanctity and responsibilities of marriage. There are
certain conditions which I hold to be essential on both sides. I hold also
that human beings are sacred and capable of deep desecration, and that
marriage, their closest bond, is sacred too, the holiest relationship in
life, and one which should only be entered upon with the greatest care,
and in the most reverent spirit. I see no reason why marriage should be a
lottery. But evidently Major Colquhoun's views upon the subject differ
widely from mine, and it seems to me utterly impossible that we should
ever be able to accommodate ourselves to each other's principles. Had I
known soon enough that he did not answer to my requirements, I should have
dismissed him at once, and thought no more about him, and all this misery
would never have occurred; but having been kept in ignorance, I consider
that I was inveigled into consenting, that the vow I made was taken under
a grave misapprehension, that therefore there is nothing either holy or
binding in it, and that every law of morality absolves me from fulfilling
my share of the contract. This, of course, is merely considering marriage
from the higher and most moral point of view; but even when I think of it
in the lower and more ordinary way, I find the same conclusion forces
itself upon me. For there certainly is no romance in marrying a man old
already in every emotion, between whom and me the recollection of some
other woman would be forever intruding. My whole soul sickens at the
possibility, and I think that it must have been women old in emotion
themselves who first tolerated the staleness of such lovers.
"I feel that my letter is very inadequate, mother. The thought that I am
forced to pain and oppose you distracts me. But I have tried
conscientiously to show you exactly what my conviction and principles are,
and I do think I have a right to beg that you will at least be tolerant,
however much you may disagree with me.
"Your affectionate daughter,
"EVADNE."
Mrs. Frayling's reply to this letter arrived by return of post, red hot.
Evadne, glancing at the envelope, frowned to find herself addressed as
"Mrs. Colquhoun." The name had not struck her on her mother's first
communication, which was also the first occasion upon which she had been
so addressed, and it had not occurred to her until now that she would have
to be "Mrs. Colquhoun" from thenceforth, whether she liked it or not. She
felt it to be unjust, distinctly; a gross infringement of the liberty of
the subject, and she opened her mother's letter with rage and rebellion at
her heart, and found the contents anything but soothing to such a state of
mind. It ran as follows:
"YOU MOST UNNATURAL CHILD:
"We shall all be disgraced if this story gets out. So far, the world knows
nothing, and there is time for you to save yourself. I warn you that your
father's anger is extreme. He says he shall be obliged to put you in a
lunatic asylum if you do not give in at once, and consent to live with
your husband. And there is the law, too, which your husband can invoke.
And think of your five sisters. Will anybody marry them after such a
business with you? Their prospects will be simply ruined by your heartless
selfishness. No girl in my young days would have acted so outrageously. It
is not decent. It is positively immodest. I repeat that your father is the
proper person to judge for you. You know nothing of the world, and even if
you did, you are not old enough to think for yourself. You do not imagine
yourself to be a sort of seer, I hope, better informed by intuition than
your parents are by wisdom and knowledge, for that would be a certain sign
of insanity. Your father thinks your opposition is mere conceit, and
certainly no good can come of it. All right minded women have submitted
and suffered patiently, and have had their reward. Think of the mother of
St. Augustin! Her husband returned to her penitent after years of
depravity. 'Every wise woman buildeth her house; but the foolish pluck it
down,' and that is what you are doing. 'A continual dropping on a rainy
day and a contentious woman are alike.' For Heaven's sake, my child, do
not become a contentious woman. See also Prov. viii. If only you had read
your Bible regularly every day, prayed humbly for a contrite heart, and
_obeyed your parents_, as you have always been taught to do, we
should never have had all this dreadful trouble with you; but you show
yourself wanting in respect in every way and in all right and proper
feeling, and really I don't know what to do. I don't indeed. Oh, do
remember that forgiveness is still offered to you, and repent while it is
called to-day. I assure you that your poor husband is even more ready than
your father and myself to forgive and forget.
"I pray for you continually, Evadne, I do indeed. If you have any natural
feeling at all, write and relieve my anxiety at once.
"Your affectionate mother,
"ELIZABETH FRAYLING."
Evadne read this letter in the drawing room, and stood for a little
leaning against the window frame looking up at the Close, at the old trees
dishevelled by the recent gale, and at the weather-beaten wall of the
south transept of the cathedral, from which the beautiful spire sprang
upward; but she rendered no account to herself of these marvels of nature
and art.
Something in her attitude as she stood there, with one hand resting flat
upon the window frame high above her head and the other hanging down
beside her loosely holding her mother's letter, attracted Mrs. Orton Beg's
attention, and made her wonder what thought her niece was so intent upon.
Not one of the thoughts of youth, which are "long, long thoughts,"
apparently, for the expression of her countenance was not far away, and
neither was it sad nor angry, but only intent. Presently, she turned from
the window, languidly strolled to the writing table, re-read her letter,
and began to write without moving a muscle of her face. As she proceeded,
however, she compressed her lips and bent her brows portentously, and Mrs.
Orton Beg was sure that she heard no note of the mellow chime which
sounded once while she was so engaged, and seemed to her aunt to plead
with her solemnly to cast her care on the great Power watching, and
continue passively in the old worn grooves, as Mrs. Orton Beg herself had
done.
Evadne began abruptly:
"THE CLOSE, MORNINGQUEST, 13th October.
"DEAR MOTHER:
"You say that no girl in your young days would have behaved so
outrageously as I am doing. I wish you had said 'so decidedly,' instead of
'outrageously,' for I am sure that any resistance to the old iniquitous
state of things is a quite hopeful sign of coming change for the better.
We are a long way from the days when it was considered right and becoming
for women in our position to sit in their 'parlours,' do Berlin woolwork,
and say nothing. We should call that conniving now. But, happily, women
are no longer content to be part of the livestock about the place; they
have acquired the right of reason and judgment in matters concerning
themselves in particular, and the welfare of the world at large. Public
opinion now is composed of what _we_ think, to a very great extent.
You remind me of what other women have done, and how patiently they have
submitted. I have found the same thing said over and over again in the
course of my reading, but I have not yet found any particular mention made
of the great good which would naturally have come of all the submission
which has been going on for so many centuries, if submission on our part
is truly an effectual means of checking sin. On the contrary. St. Monica
doubtless made things pleasanter for her own husband by rewarding him with
forgiveness, a happy home, and good nursing, when he returned to her
exhausted by vice, but at the same time she set a most pernicious example.
So long as men believe that women will forgive anything they will do
anything. Do you see what I mean? The mistake from the beginning has been
that women have practised self-sacrifice, when they should have been
teaching men self-control. You say that I do not know the world, but my
father does, and that, therefore, I must let him judge for me. He probably
does know the world, but he quite evidently does not know me. Our point of
view, you see, is necessarily very different. I have no doubt that Major
Colquhoun is agreeable in the temporary good fellowship of the smoking
room, and he is agreeable in the drawing room also, but society and his
own interests require him to be so; it is a trick of manner, merely, which
may conceal the most objectionable mind. Character is what we have most to
consider in the choosing of a partner for life, and how are we to consider
it except by actions, such as a man's misdeeds, which are specially the
outcome of his own individuality, and are calculated in their consequences
to do more injury to his family than could be compensated for by the most
charming manners in the world.
"Of course I deprecate my father's anger, but I must again repeat I do not
consider that I deserve it.
"The lunatic asylum is a nonsensical threat, and the law I am inclined to
invoke myself for the purpose of ventilating the question. Do I understand
that Major Colquhoun presumes to send _me_ messages of forgiveness?
What has _he_ to forgive, may I ask? Surely _I_ am the person
who has been imposed upon. Do not, I beg, allow him to repeat such an
impertinence.
"But, mother, why do you persistently ignore my reason for refusing to
live with Major Colquhoun? Summed up it comes to this really, and I give
it now vulgarly, baldly, boldly, and once for all. _Major Colquhoun is
not good enough, and I won't have him_. That is plain, I am sure, and I
must beg you to accept it as my final decision. The tone of our
correspondence is becoming undignified on both sides, and the
correspondence itself must end here. I shall not write another word on the
subject, and I only wish you had not compelled me to write so much.
Forgive me, mother, do, for being myself--I don't know how else to put it;
but I know that none of the others could do as I have done, and yet I
cannot help it. I cannot act otherwise and preserve my honesty and
self-respect. It is conscience, and not caprice, that I am obeying; I wish
I could make you realize that. But, at all events, don't write me any more
hard words, mother. They burn into my memory and obliterate the loving
thoughts I have of you. It is terrible to be met with bitterness and
reproach, where hitherto one has known nothing but kindness and
indulgence, so, I do entreat you, mother, once more to forgive me for
being myself, and above everything, to say nothing which will destroy my
affection for you.
"Believe me, I always have been, and hope always to be,
"Your most loving child,
"EVADNE."
The last lines were crowded into the smallest possible space, and there
had hardly been room enough for her name at the end. She glanced at the
clock as she folded the letter, and finding that there was only just time
to catch the post she rang for a servant and told her to take it at once.
Then she took her old stand in the window, and watched the girl hurrying
up the Close, holding the white letter carelessly, and waving it to and
fro on a level with her shoulder as she went.
"I wish I had had time to re-write it," Evadne thought; "shall I call her
back? No. Anything will be better for mother than another day's suspense.
But I think I might have expressed myself better. I don't know, though."
She turned from the window, and met her aunt's kind eyes fixed upon her.
"You are flushed, Evadne," the latter said. "Were you writing home?"
"Yes, auntie," Evadne answered wearily.
"You are looking more worried than I have seen you yet."
"I _am_ worried, auntie, and I lost my temper. I could not help it,
and I am dissatisfied. I know I have said too much, and I have said the
same thing over and over again, and gone round and round the subject, too,
and altogether I am disheartened."
"I cannot imagine you saying too much about anything, Evadne," Mrs. Orton
Beg commented, smiling.
"When I am speaking, you mean. But that is different. I am always afraid
to speak, but I dare write anything. The subject is closed now, however. I
shall write no more." She advanced listlessly, and leaned against the
mantelpiece close beside the couch on which her aunt was lying.
"Have you ever felt compelled to say something which all the time you hate
to say, and afterward hate yourself for having said? That is what I always
seem to be doing now." She looked up at the cathedral as she spoke. "How I
envy you your power to say exactly what you mean," she added.
"Who told you I always say exactly what I mean?" her aunt asked, smiling.
"Well, exactly what you ought to say, then," Evadne answered, responding
to the smile.
Mrs. Orton Beg sighed and resumed her knitting. She was making some sort
of wrap out of soft white wool, and Evadne noticed the glint of her rings
as she worked, and also the delicacy of her slender white hands as she
held them up in the somewhat tiring attitude which her position on the
couch necessitated.
"How patient you are, auntie," Evadne said, and then she bent down and
kissed her forehead and cheeks.
"It is easy to be patient when one's greatest trial is only the waiting
for a happy certainty," Mrs. Orton Beg answered. "But you will be patient
too, Evadne, sooner or later. You are at the passionate age now, but the
patient one will come all in good time."
"You have always a word of comfort," Evadne said.
"There is one word more I would say, although I do not wish to influence
you," Mrs. Orton Beg began hesitatingly.
"You mean _submit_" Evadne answered, and shook her head. "No, that
word is of no use to me. Mine is _rebel_. It seems to me that those
who dare to rebel in every age are they who make life possible for those
whom temperament compels to submit. It is the rebels who extend the
boundary of right little by little, narrowing the confines of wrong, and
crowding it out of existence."
She stood for a moment looking down on the ground with bent brows,
thinking deeply, and then she slowly sauntered from the room, and
presently passed the south window with her hat in her hand, took one turn
round the garden, and then subsided into the high-backed chair, on which
she had sat and fed her fancy with dreams of love a few weeks before her
marriage. The day was one of those balmy mild ones which come occasionally
in mid-October. The sheltered garden had suffered little in the recent
gale. From where Mrs. Orton Beg reclined there was no visible change in
the background of single dahlias, sunflowers, and the old brick wall
curtained with creepers, nor was there any great difference apparent in
the girl herself. The delicate shell-pink of passion had faded to milky
white, her eyes were heavy, and her attitude somewhat fatigued, but that
was all; a dance the night before, would have left her so exactly, and
Mrs. Orton Beg, watching her, wondered at the small effect of "blighted
affection" as she saw it in Evadne, compared with the terrible
consequences which popular superstition attributes to "a disappointment."
Evadne had certainly suffered, but more because her parents, in whom she
had always had perfect confidence, and whom she had known and loved as
long as she could remember anything, had failed her, than because she had
been obliged to cast a man out of her life who had merely lighted it for a
few months with a flame which she recognized now as lurid at the best, and
uncertain, and which she would never have desired to keep burning
continually with that feverish glare to the extinguishing of every other
interesting object. She would have been happiest when passion ended and
love began, as it does in happy marriages.
And she was herself comparing the two states of mind as she sat there. She
was conscious of a blank now, dull and dispiriting enough, but no more
likely to endure than the absorbing passion it succeeded. She knew it for
an interregnum, and was thinking of the books she would send for when she
had mastered herself sufficiently to be interested in books again. It was
as if her mind had been out of health, but was convalescent now and
recovering its strength; and she was as well aware of the fact as if she
had been suffering from some physical ailment which had interrupted her
ordinary pursuits, and was making plans for the time when she should be
able to resume them.
While so engaged, however, she fell asleep, as convalescents do, and Mrs.
Orton Beg smiled at the consummation. It was not romantic, but it was
eminently healthy.
At the same time, she heard the hall door opened from without as by one
who had a right to enter familiarly, and a man's step in the hall.
"Come in," she said, in answer to a firm tap at the door, and smiled,
looking over her shoulder as it opened.
It was Dr. Galbraith on his way back through Morningquest to his own
place, Fountain Towers.
"I am so glad to see you," said Mrs. Orton Beg as he took her hand.
"I am on my way back from the Castle," he rejoined, sitting down beside
her; "and I have just come in for a moment to see how the ankle
progresses."
"Quicker now, I am thankful to say," she answered. "I can get about the
house comfortably if I rest in between times. But is there anything wrong
at the Castle?"
"The same old thing," said Dr. Galbraith, with a twinkle in his bright
gray eyes. "The Duke has been seeing visions--determination of blood to
the head; and Lady Fulda has been dreaming dreams--fatigue and fasting.
Food and rest for her--she will be undisturbed by dreams to-night; and a
severe course of dieting for him."
Mrs. Orton Beg smiled. "Really life is becoming too prosaic," she said,
"since you dreadfully clever people began to discover a reason for
everything. Lady Fulda's beauty and goodness would have been enough to
convince any man at one time that she is a saint indeed, and privileged to
heal the sick and converse with angels; but you are untouched by either."
"On the contrary," he answered, "I never see her or think of her without
acknowledging to myself that she is one of the loveliest and most angelic
women in the world. And she has the true magnetic touch of a nurse too.
There is healing in it. I have seen it again and again. But that is a
natural process. Many quite wicked doctors are endowed in the same way,
and even more strongly than she is. There can be no doubt about that--" He
broke off with a little gesture and smiled genially.
"But anything _beyond_!" Mrs. Orton Beg supplemented; "anything
supernatural, in fact, you ridicule."
"One cannot ridicule _anything_ with which Lady Fulda's name is
associated," he answered. "But tell me," he exclaimed, catching sight of
Evadne placidly sleeping in the high-backed chair, with her hat in her
hand held up so as to conceal the lower part of her face; "Are visions
about? _Is_ that one that I see there before me? If I were Faust, I
should love such a Marguerite. I wish she would let her hat drop. I want
to see the lower part of her face. The upper part satisfies me. It is
fine. The balance of brow and frontal development are perfect."
Mrs. Orton Beg coloured with a momentary annoyance. She had forgotten that
Evadne was there, but Dr. Galbraith had entered so abruptly that there
would have been no time to warn her away in any case.
"No vision," she began--"or if a vision, one of the nineteenth century
sort, tangible, and of satisfying continuance. She is a niece of mine, and
I warn you in case you have a momentary desire to forsake your books and
become young in mind again for her sake that she is a very long way after
Marguerite, whom I think she would consider to have been a very weak and
foolish person. I can imagine her saying about Faust: 'Fancy sacrificing
one's self for the transient pleasure of a moonlight meeting or two with a
man, and a few jewels however unique, when one can _live_!' in
italics and with a note of admiration. 'Why, I can put my elbow here on
the arm of my chair and my head on my hand, and in a moment I perceive
delights past, present, and to come, of equal intensity, more certain
quality, and longer continuance than passion. I perceive the gradual
growth of knowledge through all the ages, the clouds of ignorance and
superstition slowly parting, breaking up, and rolling away, to let the
light of science shine--science being truth. And there is all art, and all
natural beauty from the beginning--everything that lasts and _is_
life. Why, even to think on such subjects warms my whole being with a glow
of enthusiasm which is in itself a more exquisite pleasure than passion,
and not alloyed like the latter with uncertainty, that terrible ache. I
might take my walk in the garden with my own particular Faust like any
other girl, and as I take my glass of champagne at dinner, for its
pleasurably stimulating quality, but I hope I should do both in
moderation. And as to making Faust my all, or even giving him so large a
share of my attention as to limit my capacity for other forms of
enjoyment, absurd! We are long past the time when there was only one
incident of interest in a woman's life, and that was its love affair!
There was no sense of proportion in those days!'"
"Is that how you interpret her?" he said. "One who holds herself well in
hand, bent upon enjoying every moment of her life and all the variety of
it, perceiving that it is stupid to narrow it down to the indulgence of
one particular set of emotions, and determined not to swamp every faculty
by constant cultivation of the animal instincts to which all ages have
created altars! Best for herself, I suppose, but hardly possible at
present. The capacity, you know, is only coming. Women have been cramped
into a small space so long that they cannot expand all at once when they
_are_ let out; there must be a great deal of stretching and growing,
and when they are not on their guard, they will often find themselves
falling into the old attitude, as newborn babes are apt to resume the
ante-natal position. She will have the perception, the inclination; but
the power--unless she is exceptional, the power will only be for her
daughter's daughter."
"Then she must suffer and do no good?"
"She must suffer, yes; but I don't know about the rest. She may be a
seventh wave, you know!"
"What is a seventh wave?"
"It is a superstition of the fisher-folks. They say that when the tide is
coming in it pauses always, and remains stationary between every seventh
wave, waiting for the next, and unable to rise any higher till it comes to
carry it on; and it has always seemed to me that the tide of human
progress is raised at intervals to higher levels at a bound in some such
way. The seventh waves of humanity are men and women who, by the impulse
of some one action which comes naturally to them but is new to the race,
gather strength to come up to the last halting place of the tide, and to
carry it on with them ever so far beyond." He stopped abruptly, and
brushed his hand over his forehead. "Now that I have said that," he added,
"it seems as old as the cathedral there, and as familiar, yet the moment
before I spoke it appeared to have only just occurred to me. If it is an
ill-digested reminiscence and you come across the original in some book, I
am afraid you will lose your faith in me forever; but I pray you of your
charity make due allowance. I must go."
"Oh, no, not yet a moment!" Mrs. Orton Beg exclaimed. "I want to ask you:
How are Lady Adeline and the twins?"
"I haven't seen Lady Adeline for a month," he answered, rising to go as he
spoke. "But Dawne tells me that the twins are as awful as ever. It is a
question of education now, and it seems that the twins have their own
ideas on the subject, and are teaching their parents. But take care of
your girlie out there," he added, his strong face softening as he took a
last look at her. "Her body is not so robust as her brain, I should say,
and it is late in the year to be sitting out of doors."
"Tell me, Dr. Galbraith," Mrs. Orton Beg began, detaining him, "you are a
Scotchman, you should have the second sight; tell me the fate of my girlie
out there. I am anxious about her."
"She will marry," he answered in his deliberate way, humouring her, "but
not have many children, and her husband's name should be George."
"Oh, most oracular! a very oracle! a Delphic oracle, only to be
interpreted by the event!"
"Just so!" he answered from the door, and then he was gone.
"Evadne, come in!" Mrs. Orton Beg called. "It is getting damp." Evadne
roused herself and entered at once by the window.
"I have been hearing voices through my dim dreaming consciousness," she
said. "Have you had a visitor?"
"Only the doctor," her aunt replied. "By the way, Evadne," she added,
"what is Major Colquhoun's Christian name?"
"George," Evadne answered, surprised. "Why, auntie?"
"Nothing; I wanted to know."