Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “Of course they will,” her grandfather said, impatiently.

  “Well then — I won’t have it. No, I won’t let him sacrifice himself for me,” she said bravely. “We’re not really married. It’s only pretence so that you shouldn’t be able to make me go back. But I’ll go. Only don’t do anything to him. He’s been so kind. We aren’t really married.”

  The old man laughed — a laugh that Sandra always remembered as the most horrible sound she had ever heard.

  “So that’s how he’s worked it?” he said. “I was wondering. After all you’ve a little of my blood in your veins. I was wondering how you came to throw yourself into the arms of this dirty counter-jumper. But don’t you make any mistake, my girl. This is a real marriage certificate. You’re his wife right enough. Now will you come home with me and do as I tell you? Or will you go with him and share his bed and board? You’re his wife — he can do what he likes with you. Kiss you, put his fat arms round you .. . .”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Sandra. But she did. She sat down trembling on the yellow wooden seat in the waiting room.

  “Well — will you go with him?”

  “No,” said Sandra.

  “Then sit still.” He walked to the door, hustling the organist before him. They talked there in low voices, till Mr. Mundy swept the other one out of his way, took Sandra’s arm, none too gently, and carried her off in the station fly.

  Left alone, Mr. Saccage got back the money for his first-class ticket, and instructed the station-master to wire to the Terminus about a bag that had been put into the 6:15 London express. He did not believe in wasting things. He took the next up-train, and Ringwood knew him no more. But he did not get the bag, for old Mr. Mundy, also, had a thrifty soul, and his wire went five minutes earlier.

  Sandra, dazed, berated, all her castles shattered, her only knight-errant proved to be but a scheming knave — be sure the old man rubbed it in — who had married her because she was the grand-daughter of a rich man who might be expected to leave her his money, — poor Sandra that night sobbed out the truth to her nurse. When she had cried herself to sleep, Mr. Mundy gave the nurse his version of the story.

  Next day Sandra was sent to school, and only came home when her grandfather, whom she had feared and hated, lay stiff and straight in the big bed he had used so seldom. If he had lived he would probably have tried to help Sandra to seek annulment of her marriage. The pension he paid to her horrible husband shows that he had some thought and care for her. His solicitor says that he did not at once seek to cancel the marriage, because he considered that a couple of hundred a year was well spent in guarding the girl from fortune-hunters during her impressionable minority. There is no security against being married for mercenary motives so strong as the fact that you are already married, and that your husband still lives. But Death came quickly and quietly, and if her grandfather meant to help Sandra at long last, when she had been schooled enough by the humiliation of her bondage, he never lived to do it.

  She was not a ward in Chancery. That was only a useful lie.

  In the cold dining room, with the dead man lying in the room above, the house-keeper who had been nurse sat murmuring comfort — vague little plans of quiet pleasure, a month at the seaside perhaps, — anything her dear liked.

  It was then that Sandra, quite calmly and very affectionately, explained what she meant to do. All the nurse’s objections, and they were many, were swept away with a quiet firmness that did not so much defy opposition as ignore it.

  “We are going at once,” the girl repeated, “ you and I and Denny. You must go down and tell him to-morrow morning. We are going to London and I am going to make a fortune by dancing. That man was right about one thing. I can dance. I know he was right. And when we’ve made a lot of money I shall buy a place near here, — I’d buy the Mount if I could, — and come back and live here and be good to the poor people. And you shall live in luxury, Nursie-love, and so shall Denny. But we’ll make a name for ourselves first. Now help me to pack up every single thing that’s valuable and packable. That lawyer man told me grandfather left no money, only debts. And I’m not a ward of Chancery, and Granny didn’t leave me anything. Grandfather only said that. And everything here’s to be sold to pay the debts. They shan’t sell my share. We’ll take it.”

  “But my love,” said the nurse, “ it’s stealing.”

  “No, it isn’t. I ought to have my share. And if it was stealing I’d do it just the same. I’ve had enough of being under people’s thumbs. I’m going to have people under my thumb. And the way to do it’s money, money, money. And you’re going to help me — Denny and you.”

  The nurse sat gazing into the fire, for it was in late October that his last chance of doing anything kind for his son’s child was taken away from Richard Mundy. And she was silent for quite a minute.

  Then she said: “You know, my lamb, your dear father married beneath him, as they say.”

  “So they say,” said the girl. “ I expect she was worth twenty of him, if he was anything like grandpa.”

  “Oh, hush,” said the nurse. “ Your father was a perfect gentleman, like a fashion-plate for politeness to all. And your mother was a good honest girl and loved him faithful, dear, for all she was a dancer. Don’t you ever believe different.”

  “Did you know her?” Sandra asked curiously.

  “Better than I did anyone else,” said her nurse, in a curious stuffy voice.

  Sandra looked at her, the light of romance awake in her eyes.

  “Oh, darling, how splendid! I see it all — you’re my mother!” she cried through an embrace.

  “How you do jump at things,” said the nurse. “I wish I was your mother, my pet, but she’s in her grave this many a year.”

  “How disappointing of you not to be her,” said Sandra.

  “You wouldn’t be ashamed of her if it was me?”

  “Do I look like it?” said Sandra, hugging her again.

  “Well then .... I think p’raps I ought to tell you, love, and if it hurts your pride I’ll wish I’d bitten my tongue out first. I’m your own mother’s own cousin! There!”

  It was pale after the light of rosy romance, but that it was something warm kisses attested.

  “How lovely! And I’ve got someone that really belongs to me. And it’s you. Oh, you dear, I haven’t been so happy since I was a little kid and you used to let me have dolls’ tea-parties in the forest.”

  “Your grandfather . . . . “ the nurse admonished with an upward glance.

  “He’s dead,” said Sandra firmly, “so we won’t say anything about him. I’m glad I’ve got one relation who hasn’t a stone cannon-ball instead of a heart. I wonder he let you come here, I’m sure. ‘ It was not like his great and gracious ways!’”

  “It was the only way I could think of to be near you. Your grandfather was a hard man, but you’ve always got to remember he let me come as nurse to my pretty. I took you from your mother’s side as she lay dead,” she went on slowly, “ and no one else ever did a hand’s turn dressing or bathing you. That’s something. Her arid I were like sisters,” she said, “ and there were other reasons .. . .” she paused on a sob.

  “You poor, dear darling,” said Sandra. “ You were fond of my father, and my mother got him. I do really see it all this time.”

  “I don’t know how you fare to think of such things,” said the nurse; but she did not deny it.

  “It was decent of him to let you come,” the girl said.

  “It was that. But he made me promise that I’d never tell you I was anything to your mother. And I’ve kept my word up to now, haven’t I, pet?”

  “And now.”

  “Oh, well — a promise is a promise, — and while he lived I would as soon have broken it as laugh in church. But he’s dead, and that makes all the difference. So if you do go this wild goose chase to London, you’ll have your own aunt, or as good as — to watch over you and see that people respect you like they ought.�
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  “I’ll take care of that,” said Sandra. “So you’re going to be a dragon or a gorgon — or whatever it is .... I say, I can’t go on calling you Nurse. I shall call you Aunt Medusa. Do you mind?”

  “So long as you’re within arm’s reach you may call me what you like,” said the nurse fondly. “ I’ve had my own troubles. I’ve been married — such a handsome man as he was — a Jew, it’s true, but such a way with him. I never had a moment’s peace till I buried him. And that reminds me.” She cleared her throat nervously.

  “I ought to tell you, my dear — your grandfather told me all about that wicked musical gentleman who tried to take advantage of you.”

  “All?”

  “He told me he’d got you to marry him on false pretences, the scum! But don’t you worry about him, love. He’s dead and buried, too — I’ll be bound. Your grandfather used to send him money to keep him quiet. But I know he hasn’t sent to him for over a year. So I say he’s dead and out of the way.”

  “Ah,” said Sandra.

  “And if you do hold to this moonlight Hitting what I say is let me send to my late husband’s brother, — a fine gentleman he is rolling in money, a house-agent, and a good many

  other things besides if what my Eph used to tell was true. He was always quite the gentleman to me, sends me £50 every Christmas for a present regular as the day comes round. I’ll drop him a line, and see if he won’t help us. You won’t be any the worse for a gentleman of means to back you, who’s, so to say, a relation, so he can’t be up to any of their underhand schemes with a young girl.”

  Nurse’s late husband’s brother wrote a very laconic answer to her involved appeal. “ Come and see me,” he said.

  So when the three, with their boxes and bales, reached London, they went to see Mr. Moses Mosenthal, House and Estate Agent and .... the rest.

  “I must see her dance,” he said. “ I cannot take the risk of helping a maiden to make of herself a fool. That is not the way for Moses Mosenthal. Go now to this quiet hotel,” he pencilled the address. “And to-morrow night, when she is from her journey rested, return here at eight — she shall dance for me. And the young man shall bring the flute with.”

  It was in a narrow first-floor room, among rolled pieces of cloth piled to the ceiling, with coats hanging from curved bars, and books of patterns outspread on a rosewood centre table, with coats half finished embellished with white tacking threads and mysterious patches of what looked like sacking, that Sandra first danced to Mr. Moses Mosenthal. Two shut doors to the left bore the legend: “ Mr. Mosenthal. Store-rooms. Private.”

  The dark blue velvet curtains that conceal the intimacies of the “ trying on “ served well as background.

  Sandra had flattened her pretty nose at a florist’s window and presently gone in and bought long trails of smilax and white chrysanthemums. These formed a wreath. Her dress was an old limp muslin wrapper that had been her mother’s, artfully wetted and creased and dried in long wavy creases, cut off at the knee in a ragged zigzag fringe. Ankles and feet were bare. Perched on a pile of cloth Pan piped to her. The nurse, her bonnet on one side, watched breathlessly — not her girl, but the face of her brother-in-law. It was the Tchaikovsky music that had sounded long ago through the forest leaves to Mr. Edmund Templar, and the spirit of the dance that he had watched was there — in the tailor’s shop, as it had been in the green forest.

  The dance ended. Sandra was on one knee, arms held out, appealing, questioning, to Mr. Moses Mosenthal. Would he approve? Would he applaud?

  He just nodded, three times. Then he rubbed his hands.

  “Well,” said the nurse. Sandra would not have spoken then.

  “Good, good! But it is good! It is great.”

  He reached his large hand to Sandra to raise her — much as Ahasuerus may have reached the sceptre to Queen Esther.

  “So! To-morrow I take you to see a manager. He will give you a show if I say so. But you sign nothing without me. See? And you do not give your address. See? And tonight you still stay at the Hotel, and to-morrow I find you a house that no one know where you are. See? I am house-agent. I have many houses. And I have among them, I have without doubt the house for you — the house without an address.”

  CHAPTER VII. PARTING

  She came along by the towing path, and he knew the moment he saw her that the world was changed. Calamity weighed on her gait, the swing of her clenched hand, the droop of her proud head. He went to meet her along the path, still dewy.

  “Where’s your boat?” he said.

  “At the lock. I was tired. I thought I should get here quicker walking. Let’s go across the meadow and sit under the trees, shall we?”

  “Where’s your basket — In the boat?” he asked stupidly.

  They had parted last night in the dusk, almost as lovers part. And he had gone home through the twilight thinking of her, thinking, thinking. He, who had pursued her through paved London, with his mean spying and the hot desire of a man who seeks the embraces of an easy Venus, who had hunted her with his dogs of dirty detectives as one hunts a prey, who had soiled the thought of her with those other tainted cheap thoughts of her — he Had found her, when he had ceased to seek, and had found Diana with a child’s heart.

  This he saw plainly as he went home along the winding river bank. He also saw that having found the nectar of the gods where he had looked for cheap champagne, — ambrosia, where he had thought to find the spiced dishes of vulgar gourmets — he must hold fast his prize.

  He did not want to be married: no man does. But he wanted her. He wanted the food of the gods, and that food could only be served as a sacrament. To soil the bread and foul the wine were a sin unthinkable. When you have looked for a pig-sty and found a palace, you do not seek to turn what you have found into what you looked for. You desire to enter the palace and make it your own forever. The palace of pure love was here: marriage its only door.

  Half the night he had lain awake going over her words, re-feeling again and again the touch of her two soft thin hands in his.

  He had tried — not at all meaning to try — to draw her to him by those hands, and she had swung herself back to full arm’s length and said ever so softly and passionately: “ No, no — not yet; it is too soon. I mean it is very late, I must go home.”

  And he had let her go. They had walked together to the gate of her garden, and for most of the way her hand had been on his arm, against his heart.

  And now — he dared not meet her eyes, for fear of the coldness and distance that he knew they held.

  Could she have found out anything? About the detective?

  In silence they reached the trees, and sat down under them. She clasped her hands round her knees and looked out across the pasture to the woods with eyes that did not see them. He waited awhile. Then,

  “What is it?” he said in a very low voice.

  “I don’t know how to begin.”

  “Don’t begin. Just tell me.”

  “I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  “Something’s happened since last night? Something bad.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very bad?”

  “Yes — the worst that possibly could.”

  “Then tell me. You must.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I might explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “ Because I shall help you then,” he said.

  “No one can help me.”

  “I can help you to bear it.”

  “Not even that . . . It’s no good. I can’t tell you — let me go home. Good-bye.”

  It was then that he came close to her so that his shoulder touched her’s as it leaned against the trunk of the oak tree.

  “Tell me,” he said, “ tell me, because I love you.”

  She turned and looked at him. He met the look in her eyes and kissed her. She drew back instantly, loosed her clasped hands and held the
m out to him.

  “Ah,” she said, and “ Ah,” again, and then surprisingly:

  “I hoped you would tell me that.”

  He held her hands closely, and had the sense not to say, “ Why? “ To be near her — even with this unexplained cloud above them — was enough to make the old earth new. And he had kissed her. And as he kissed her he had known certainly what really he had known before, that she loved him.

  “Tell me,” he said, tenderly, almost gaily. “ I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure when you tell me it will all turn out to be nothing. It’s some silly nightmare, and when you tell me you’ll wake up. And when you’ve told me I want to tell you things, no end of things, all new and all beautiful. Tell me.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, and her eyes were faraway again on the distant wood. “ I can tell you now. That’s why I hoped you’d tell me that. At least I think that’s why. Any way I couldn’t have told you if you hadn’t. I shouldn’t have had any right to tell you.”

  “I am a patient man,” he said, and the joy would not any longer be kept out of his voice, “ but there are limits. Tell me.”

  “I will,” she said. “ I am married.”

  “You . . . you are .. .”

  “I am married. I thought he was dead. Aunt Dusa thought so too. Last night he turned up. I am glad you love me; for myself I am glad. It’s the only beautiful thing I’ve ever had .... these four beautiful days. But it’s hard for you.”

  Her voice was cold and toneless.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It’s some child’s test of yours — to see whether I love you .... to see how unhappy you can make me. It’s not a pretty game — dear — don’t . . . .”

  “It’s not a game,” she said, “ and you know it. Don’t — you’re hurting my hands. Let them go.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said humbly, and he did not let them go.

  “Don’t make it harder by pretending not to believe me. Let me tell you — I was a child and a fool. Let me tell you.”

  She told him, all that the last chapter told you, or nearly — all that and very much more.