by Edith Nesbit
Then he dined in Hall — he could not spare from his great renunciation even such a thread of a thought as should have decided his choice of a restaurant; and he went back to the gloomy little rooms and wrote a letter to Tom.
It seemed, until his scientific curiosity was aroused by the seeming, that he wrote with his heart’s blood. After the curiosity awoke, the heart’s blood was only highly-coloured water.
“Look here. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m a brute and I know it, and I know you’ll think so. The fact is I’ve fallen in love with your Harry, and I simply can’t bear it seeing her every day almost and knowing she’s yours and not mine” (there the analytic demon pricked up its ears and the scratching of the pen ceased). “I have fought against this,” the letter went on after a long pause. “You don’t know how I’ve fought, but it’s stronger than I am. I love her — impossibly, unbearably — the only right and honourable thing to do is to go away, and I’m going. My only hope is that she’ll never know.
“Your old friend.”
As he scrawled the signatory hieroglyphic, his only hope was that she would know it, and that the knowledge would leaven, with tenderly pitying thoughts of him, the heroic figure, her happiness with Tom, the commonplace.
He addressed and stamped the envelope; but he did not close it.
“I might want to put in another word or two,” he said to himself. And even then in his inmost heart he hardly knew that he was going to her. He knew it when he was driving towards Chenies Street, and then he told himself that he was going to bid her good-bye — for ever.
Angel and devil were so busy shifting the curtain to and fro that he could not see any scene clearly.
He came into her presence pale with his resolution to be noble, to leave her for ever to happiness — and Tom. It was difficult though, even at that supreme moment, to look at her and to couple those two ideas.
“I’ve come to say good-bye,” he said.
“Good-bye?” the dismay in her eyes seemed to make that unsealed letter leap in his side pocket.
“Yes — I’m going — circumstances I can’t help — I’m going away for a long time.”
“Is it bad news? Oh — I am sorry. When are you going?”
“To-morrow,” he said, even as he decided to say, “to-night.”
“But you can stay a little now, can’t you? Don’t go like this. It’s dreadful. I shall miss you so—”
He fingered the letter.
“I must go and post a letter; then I’ll come back, if I may. Where did I put that hat of mine?”
As she turned to pick up the hat from the table, he dropped the letter — the heart’s blood written letter — on the floor behind him.
“I’ll be back in a minute or two,” he said, and went out to walk up and down the far end of Chenies Street and to picture her — alone with his letter.
She saw it at the instant when the latch of her flat clicked behind him. She picked it up, and mechanically turned it over to look at the address.
He, in the street outside, knew just how she would do it. Then she saw that the letter was unfastened.
How often had Tom said that there were to be no secrets between them! This was his letter. But it might hold Dick’s secrets. But then, if she knew Dick’s secrets she might be able to help him. He was in trouble — anyone could see that — awful trouble. She turned the letter over and over in her hands.
He, without, walking with half-closed eyes, felt that she was so turning it.
Suddenly she pulled the letter out and read it. He, out in the gas-lit night, knew how it would strike at her pity, her tenderness, her strong love of all that was generous and noble. He pictured the scene that must be when he should re-enter her room, and his heart beat wildly. He held himself in; he was playing the game now in deadly earnest. He would give her time to think of him, to pity him — time even to wonder whether, after all, duty and honour had not risen up in their might to forbid him to dare to try his faith by another sight of her. He waited, keenly aware that long as the waiting was to him, who knew what the ending was to be, it must be far, far longer for her, who did not know.
At last he went back to her. And the scene that he had pictured in the night where the east wind swept the street was acted out now, exactly as he had foreseen it.
She held in her hand the open letter. She came towards him, still holding it.
“I’ve read your letter,” she said.
In her heart she was saying, “I must be brave. Never mind modesty and propriety. Tom could never love me like this. He’s a hero — my hero.”
In the silence that followed her confession he seemed to hear almost the very words of her thought.
He hung his head and stood before her in the deep humility of a chidden child.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am ashamed. Forgive me. I couldn’t help it. No one could. Good-bye. Try to forgive me—”
He turned to go, but she caught him by the arms. He had been almost sure she would.
“You mustn’t go,” she said. “Oh — I am sorry for Tom — but it’s not the same for him. There are lots of people he’d like just as well — but you—”
“Hush!” he said gently, “don’t think of me. I shall be all right. I shall get over it.”
His sad, set smile assured her that he never would — never, in this world or the next.
Her eyes were shining with the stress of the scene: his with the charm of it.
“You are so strong, so brave, so good,” she made herself say. “I can’t let you go. Oh — don’t you see — I can’t let you suffer. You’ve suffered so much already — you’ve been so noble. Oh — it’s better to know now. If I’d found out later—”
She hung her head and waited.
But he would not spare her. Since he had sold his soul he would have the price: the full price, to the last blush, the last tear, the last tremble in the pretty voice.
“Let me go,” he said, and his voice shook with real passion, “let me go — I can’t bear it.” He took her hands gently from his arms and held them lightly.
Next moment they were round his neck, and she was clinging wildly to him.
“Don’t be unhappy! I can’t bear it. Don’t you see? Ah — don’t you see?”
Then he allowed himself to let her know that he did see. When he left her an hour later she stood in the middle of her room and drew a long breath.
“Oh!” she cried. “What have I done? What have I done?”
He walked away with the maiden fire of her kisses thrilling his lips. “I’ve won — I’ve won — I’ve won!” His heart sang within him.
But when he woke in the night — these months had taught him the habit of waking in the night and facing his soul — he said —
“It was very easy, after all — very, very easy. And was it worth while?”
But the next evening, when they met, neither tasted in the other’s kisses the bitterness of last night’s regrets. And in three days Tom was to come home. He came. All the long way in the rattling, shaking train a song of delight sang itself over and over in his brain. He, too, had his visions: he was not too commonplace for those. He saw her, her bright beauty transfigured by the joy of reunion, rushing to meet him with eager hands and gladly given lips. He thought of all he had to tell her. The fifty pounds saved already. The Editor’s probable resignation, his own almost certain promotion, the incredibly dear possibility of their marriage before another year had passed. It seemed a month before he pressed the electric button at her door, and pressed it with a hand that trembled for joy.
The door opened and she met him, but this was not the radiant figure of his vision. It seemed to be not she, but an image of her — an image without life, without colour.
“Come in,” she said; “I’ve something to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asked bluntly. “What’s happened, Harry? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve found out,” she said slowly, but without hesitation:
had she not rehearsed the speech a thousand times in these three days? “I’ve found out that it was a mistake, Tom. I — I love somebody else. Don’t ask who it is. I love him. Ah — don’t!”
For his face had turned a leaden white, and he was groping blindly for something to hold on to.
He sat down heavily on the chair where Dick had knelt at her feet the night before. But now it was she who was kneeling.
“Oh, don’t, Tom, dear — don’t. I can’t bear it. I’m not worth it. He’s so brave and noble — and he loves me so.”
“And don’t I love you?” said poor Tom, and then without ado or disguise he burst into tears.
She had ceased to think or to reason. Her head was on his shoulder, and they clung blindly to each other and cried like two children.
When Tom went to the Temple that night he carried a note from Harry to Dick. With sublime audacity and a confidence deserved she made Tom her messenger.
“It’s a little secret,” she said, smiling at him, “and you’re not to know.”
Tom thought it must be something about a Christmas present for himself. He laughed — a little shakily — and took the note.
Dick read it and crushed it in his hand while Tom poured out his full heart.
“There’s been some nonsense while I was away,” he said; “she must have been dull and unhinged — you left her too much alone, old man. But it’s all right now. She couldn’t care for anyone but me, after all, and she knew it directly she saw me again. And we’re to be married before next year’s out, if luck holds.”
“Here’s luck, old man!” said Dick, lifting his whisky. When Tom had gone to bed, weary with the quick sequence of joy and misery and returning joy, Dick read the letter again.
“I can’t do it,” said the letter, “it’s not in me. He loves me too much. And I am fond of him. He couldn’t bear it. He’s weak, you see. He’s not like you — brave and strong and noble. But I shall always be better because you’ve loved me. I’m going to try to be brave and noble and strong like you. And you must help me, Dear. God bless you. Good-bye.”
“After all,” said Dick, as he watched the white letter turn in the fire to black, gold spangled, “after all, it was not so easy. And oh, how it would have been worth while!”
MISS EDEN’S BABY
MISS EDEN’S life-history was a sad one. She told it to her employer before she had been a week at the Beeches. Mrs. Despard came into the school-room and surprised the governess in tears. No one could ever resist Mrs. Despard — I suppose she has had more confidences than any woman in Sussex. Anyhow, Miss Eden dried her tears and faltered out her poor little story.
She had been engaged to be married — Mrs. Despard’s was a face trained to serve and not to betray its owner, so she did not look astonished, though Miss Eden was so very homely, poor thing, that the idea of a lover seemed almost ludicrous — she had been engaged to be married: and her lover had been killed at Elendslaagte, and her father had died of heart disease — an attack brought on by the shock of the news, and his partner had gone off with all his money, and now she had to go out as a governess: her mother and sister were living quietly on the mother’s little fortune. There was enough for two but not enough for three. So Miss Eden had gone governessing.
“But you needn’t pity me for that,” she said, when Mrs. Despard said something kind, “because, really, it’s better for me. If I were at home doing nothing I should just sit and think of him — for hours and hours at a time. He was so brave and strong and good — he died cheering his men on and waving his sword, and he did love me so. We were to have been married in August.”
She was weeping again, more violently than before; Mrs. Despard comforted her — there is no one who comforts so well — and the governess poured out her heart. When the dressing-bell rang Miss Eden pulled herself together with a manifest effort.
“I’ve been awfully weak and foolish,” she said, “and you’ve been most kind. Please forgive me — and — and I think I’d rather not speak of it any more — ever. It’s been a relief, just this once — but I’m going to be brave. Thank you, thank you for all your goodness to me. I shall never forget it.”
And now Miss Eden went about her duties with a courageous smile, and Mrs. Despard could not but see and pity the sad heart beneath the bravely assumed armour. Miss Eden was fairly well educated, and she certainly was an excellent teacher. The children made good progress. She worshipped Mrs. Despard — but then every one did that — and she made herself pleasures of the little things she was able to do for her — mending linen, arranging flowers, running errands, and nursing the Baby. She adored the Baby. She used to walk by herself in the Sussex lanes, for Mrs. Despard often set her free for two or three hours at a time, and more than once the mother and children, turning some leafy corner in their blackberrying or nutting expeditions, came upon Miss Eden walking along with a far-away look in her eyes, and a face set in a mask of steadfast endurance. She would sit sewing on the lawn with Mabel and Gracie playing about her, answering their ceaseless chatter with a patient smile. To Mrs. Despard she was a pathetic figure. Mr. Despard loathed her, but then he never liked women unless they were pretty.
“I ought to be used to your queer pets by now,” he said; “but really this one is almost too much. Upon my soul, she’s the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen.”
She certainty was not handsome. Her eyes were fairly good, but mouth and nose were clumsy, and hers was one of those faces that seem to have no definite outline. Her complexion was dull and unequal. Her hair was straight and coarse, and somehow it always looked dusty. Her figure was her only good point, and, as Mr. Despard observed, “If a figure without a face is any good, why not have a dressmaker’s dummy, and have done with it?”
Mr. Despard was very glad when he heard that a little legacy had come from an uncle, and that Miss Eden was going to give up governessing and live with her people.
Miss Eden left in floods of tears, and she clung almost frantically to Mrs. Despard.
“You have been so good to me,” she said. “I may write to you, mayn’t I? and come and see you sometimes? You will let me, won’t you?”
Tears choked her, and she was driven off in the station fly. And a new governess, young, commonplacely pretty, and entirely heart-whole, came to take her place, to the open relief of Mr. Despard, and the little less pronounced satisfaction of the little girls.
“She’ll write to you by every post now, I suppose,” said Mr. Despard when the conventional letter of thanks for kindness came to his wife. But Miss Eden did not write again till Christmas. Then she wrote to ask Mrs. Despard’s advice. There was a gentleman, a retired tea-broker, in a very good position. She liked him — did Mrs. Despard think it would be fair to marry him when her heart was buried for ever in that grave at Elendslaagte?
“But I don’t want to be selfish, and poor Mr. Cave is so devoted. My dear mother thinks he would never be the same again if I refused him.”
Mr. Despard read the letter, and told his wife to tell the girl to take the tea-broker, for goodness’ sake, and be thankful. She’d never get such another chance. His wife told him not to be coarse, and wrote a gentle, motherly letter to Miss Eden.
On New Year’s Day came a beautiful and very expensive handkerchief-sachet for Mrs. Despard, and the news that Miss Eden was engaged. “And already,” she wrote, “I feel that I can really become attached to Edward. He is goodness itself. Of course, it is not like the other. That only comes once in a woman’s life, but I believe I shall really be happy in a quiet, humdrum way.”
After that, news of Miss Eden came thick and fast. Edward was building a house for her. Edward had bought her a pony-carriage. Edward had to call his house No. 70, Queen’s Road — a new Town Council resolution — and it wasn’t in a street at all, but quite in the country, only there was going to be a road there some day. And she had so wanted to call it the Beeches, after dear Mrs. Despard’s house, where she had been so happy. The wedding-day was fixed,
and would Mrs. Despard come to the wedding? Miss Eden knew it was a good deal to ask; but if she only would!
“It would add more than you can possibly guess to my happiness,” she said, “if you could come. There is plenty of room in my mother’s little house. It is small, but very convenient, and it has such a lovely old garden, so unusual, you know, in the middle of a town; and if only dear Mabel and Gracie might be among my little bridesmaids! The dresses are to be half-transparent white silk over rose colour. Dear Edward’s father insists on ordering them himself from Liberty’s. The other bridesmaids will be Edward’s little nieces — such sweet children. Mother is giving me the loveliest trousseau. Of course, I shall make it up to her; but she will do it, and I give way, just to please her. It’s not pretentious, you know, but everything so good. Real lace on all the under things, and twelve of everything, and—”
The letter wandered on into a maze of lingerie and millinery and silk petticoats.
Mr. and Mrs. Despard were still debating the question of the bridesmaids whose dresses were to come from Liberty’s when a telegraph boy crossed the lawn.
Mrs. Despard tore open the envelope.
“Oh — how frightfully sad!” she said. “I am sorry! ‘Edward’s father dangerously ill. Wedding postponed.’”
The next letter was black-edged, and was not signed “Eden.” Edward’s father had insisted on the marriage taking place before he died — it had, in fact, been performed by his bedside. It had been a sad time, but Mrs. Edward was very happy now.
“My husband is so good to me, his thoughtful kindness is beyond belief,” she wrote. “He anticipates my every wish. I should be indeed ungrateful if I did not love him dearly. Dear Mrs. Despard, this gentle domestic love is very beautiful. I hope I am not treacherous to my dead in being as happy as I am with Edward. Ah! I hear the gate click — I must run and meet him. He says it is not like coming home unless my face is the first he sees when he comes in. Good-bye. A thousand thanks for ever for all your goodness.
