'It's absurd. Of course she came. She was an old friend of mine.'
'I know that sort of friend. D'you think I didn't see the way she looked at you, and how she followed you with her eyes? She simply hung on every word you said. When you smiled she smiled; when you laughed she laughed. Oh, I should think she was in love with you; I know what love is, and I felt it. And when she looked at me, I knew she hated me because I'd robbed her of you.'
'Oh, what a dog's life it is we lead!' he cried, unable to contain himself. 'We've both been utterly wretched, and it can't go on. I do my best to hold myself in, but sometimes I feel it's impossible. I shall be led to saying things that we shall both regret. For Heaven's sake, let us part.'
'No. I won't consent.'
'We can't go on having these awful quarrels. It was a horrible mistake that we ever married. You must see that as well as I. We're utterly unsuited to one another, and the baby's death removed the only necessity that held us together.'
'You talk as if we only remained together because it was convenient.'
'Let me go, Jenny; I can't stand it any more,' he cried passionately. 'I feel as if I shall go mad.' He stretched out his hands, appealing. 'I did my best for you a year ago. I gave you all I had to give; it was little enough, in all conscience. Now I ask you to give me back my freedom.'
She was perfectly distracted; it had never occurred to her for a moment that things would go so far.
'You only think of yourself!' she exclaimed. 'What's to become of me?'
'You'll be much happier,' he answered eagerly, thinking she would yield. 'It's the best thing for both of us.'
'But I love you, Basil.'
'You!' He stared at her with dismay and consternation. 'Why, you've tortured me for six months beyond all endurance. You've made all my days a burden to me. You've made my life a perfect hell.'
She stared at him, sheer panic in her eyes; each word was like a death-blow, and she gasped and shuddered. Like a hunted thing, she looked this way and that for means of escape, but nothing offered; and then, groping strangely, seeking to hide herself, she staggered to the door.
'Give me time to think it over,' she said hoarsely.
Next morning at breakfast Basil, with elaborate politeness, spoke of trivial things, but Jenny noticed that he kept his eyes averted, and it cut her to the quick because he used her as he might a chance acquaintance. It seemed then that even stony silence would have been more easy to endure. Rising from the table, he asked whether she had considered his proposal.
'No; I didn't think you really meant it.'
He shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He made ready to go out, and she watched him with trembling heart, hoping with most sickening anguish that he would say one kind word to her before he left.
'You're going very early this morning,' she remarked.
'I've got to devil a case at eleven, and I want to see someone before I go into court.'
'Who?'
He coloured and looked away.
'My solicitor.'
This time it was she who kept silence; but when he went out into the street she watched him from the window, carefully, so that he should not see her if he looked up. But he never turned back. He walked slowly with bowed shoulders, as though he were very tired; then she gave way to her bitter sorrow and wept uncontrollably. She did not know what to do, and more than ever before needed advice. On a sudden she made up her mind to see Frank Hurrell; for during the summer he had come fairly often to Barnes, and she had been always grateful for his sober kindness; him at least she could trust, and unlike the others, he would not scorn her because she was of mean birth. Part of her difficulties arose from the fact that of late she had grown quite out of sympathy with her own people, seeing things from a different standpoint, so that it was impossible to appeal to their sympathy; she was a stranger to all the world, disaccustomed now to her own class, and still outside that into which she had married. Desperately she fancied that the very universe stood against her, and it appeared vaguely that she struggled like a drowning man against the overwhelming waters of humanity.
Jenny hurriedly dressed, and took the train to Waterloo. She did not know at what time Frank went out, and was terrified at the thought of missing him. But her training prevented her from taking a cab, and she got into a bus. It seemed to crawl along, and the minutes were hours; each stoppage drove her to such a pitch of nervous exasperation that she could scarcely sit still, and only persuaded herself with difficulty that, however slowly it went, the omnibus must go faster than she could walk. Arrived at length, Jenny to her great relief found that Frank was in, but he was so obviously surprised to see her that for a moment, disconcerted, she knew not how to explain her visit.
'May I speak to you for a few minutes? I won't keep you long.'
'By all means. Where is Basil?'
He made her sit down, and tried to take from her the umbrella which she held firmly; but she refused to be parted from it, and sat on the edge of the chair, ill at ease, with the awkward formality of a person unused to drawing-rooms. To Frank, seeking to make her comfortable, she seemed like a housekeeper applying for a situation.
'Can I trust you?' she broke out abruptly, with an effort. 'I'm in awful trouble. You're a good sort, and you've never looked down on me because I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you. There's no one I can speak to, and I feel if I don't speak I shall go off my head.'
'But, good heavens! what's the matter?'
'Everything's the matter. He wants to separate. He's gone to his solicitor today. He's going to turn me out in the street like a servant; and I shall kill myself – I tell you I'll kill myself.' She wrung her hands, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. 'Before you we've always kept up appearances, because he was ashamed to let you see how he regrets having married me.'
Frank knew well enough that for some months things had not gone very smoothly with the pair, but it had never occurred to him that they were come to such a pass. He did not know what to say nor how to reassure her.
'It's nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. After all, you must expect to have those.'
'No, it isn't. I shouldn't mind if I thought he loved me, but he doesn't. He calls it a dog's life, and he's right.' She hesitated, but only for an instant. 'Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something – on your honour?'
'Of course.'
'Is there anything between Basil and Mrs Murray?'
'No, certainly not!' he cried emphatically. 'How can such an idea have come to you!'
'You wouldn't tell me if there was,' she answered distractedly; and now the words, which before had come so hardly, poured out in a disordered torrent. 'You're all against me because I'm not a lady.... Oh, I'm so unhappy! I tell you he's in love with Mrs Murray. The other day he was going to dine there, and you should have seen him! He was so restless he couldn't sit still; he looked at his watch every minute. His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear his heart beating. He was there twice last week, and twice the week before.'
'How d'you know?'
'Because I followed him. If I'm not ladylike enough for him, I needn't play the lady there. You're shocked now, I suppose?'
'I wouldn't presume to judge you,' he answered quietly.
'He never loved me,' she went on, feverish and overwrought. 'He married me because he thought it was his duty. And then, when the baby died – he thought I'd entrapped him.'
'He didn't say so.'
'No,' she shouted hysterically, 'he never says anything; but I saw it in his eyes.' She clasped her hands passionately, rocking to and fro. 'Oh, you don't know what our life is. For days he never says a word except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. I shouldn't mind if he blackguarded me; I'd rather he hit me than simply look and look. I could see he was keeping himself in, and I knew it was getting towards the end.'
'I'm very sorry,' said Frank helplessly.
Even to himself the words sounde
d formal and insincere, and Jenny broke out vehemently.
'Oh, don't you pity me, too. I've had a great deal too much pity; I don't want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, God, I wish he hadn't! I can't stand the unhappiness.'
'You know, Jenny, he's a man of honour, and he'd never do anything that wasn't straight.'
'Oh, I know he's a man of honour,' she cried bitterly. 'I wish he had a little less of it; one doesn't want a lot of fine sentiments in married life – they don't work.' She stood up and beat her breast. 'Oh, why couldn't I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn't a clerk or something in the City. He's right – we shall never be happy. It isn't a matter of yesterday, or today, or tomorrow. I can't alter myself. He knew I wasn't a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can't expect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them finished in Paris. ... He doesn't say a word when I do something or say something a lady wouldn't, but he purses up his lips and looks. Then I get so mad I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well the things that'll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he's raw and where I can hurt him. You should see the way he looks when I don't eat properly, or call a man a Johnny.'
'It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness,' answered Frank dryly.
'Oh, I know it isn't fair to him, but I lose my head. I can't always be refined. Sometimes I can't help breaking out; I feel I must let myself go.'
Her cheeks were flaming, and she breathed rapidly. Never before had she disclosed her heart so completely to anyone, and Frank, watching her keenly, could not understand this curious mingling of love and hate.
'Why don't you separate, then?' he asked.
'Because I love him.' Her voice, hard and metallic before, grew suddenly so tender that the change was extraordinary; the bitterness went out of her face. 'Oh, you don't know how I love him! I'd do anything to make him happy; I'd give my life if he wanted it. Oh, I can't say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes I can hardly breathe. I can never show him that he's all the world to me; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can I do to show him? Ah, if he only knew, I'm sure he'd not regret that he married me. I feel – I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yet something prevents me from ever bringing it out.'
For a while they sat in silence.
'What is it you wish me to do?' asked Frank at last.
'I want you to tell him I love him. I can't; I always make a mess of it. Tell him he's all in the world to me, and I will try to be a good wife to him. Ask him not to leave me, and say that I mean everything for the best.' She paused and dried her eyes. 'And couldn't you go to Mrs Murray and tell her? Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps she doesn't know what she's doing. Ask her not to take him away from me.'
She seized his hands in appeal, and he had no power to resist.
'I'll do my best. Don't be too downhearted. I'm sure it'll all come right and you'll be very happy again.'
She tried to smile through her tears and to thank him, but her voice refused to help her, and she could only press his hands. With a sudden impulse she bent down and kissed them; then quickly, leaving him strangely moved, went out.
13
JENNY had not given Frank a very easy task, and when she was gone he cursed her irritably – her father, mother, husband, and all her stock. He knew Mrs Murray fairly well, had treated her in illness, and also gone somewhat frequently to the house in Charles Street; but, for all that it was awkward to attack her on a subject of so personal a nature, and he was aware that he laid himself open to an unpleasant rebuke. He shrugged his shoulders, making up his mind to call on her that afternoon and say his say.
'She can snub me till she's blue in the face,' he muttered.
Ignorant of what was in store, Hilda Murray, coming in from luncheon, went into her drawing-room, and since the day was wet and dismal, ordered the curtains to be drawn, the lights to be turned on. She relished enormously the warm and comfortable cosiness of that room, furnished pleasantly, with a good deal of taste, if without marked originality; there were dozens of such apartments in Mayfair, with the same roomy, chintz-covered chairs, Chippendale tables and marquetry cabinets, with the same pictures on the walls. Wealth was there without ostentation, art without eccentricity; and Mr Farley, the Vicar of All Souls, who came early, recognized with sleek content that a woman who dwelt in such a room must possess a due sense of the proprieties and a gratifying belief in the importance of the London clergy. Meeting her for the first time a year before in Old Queen Street, the amiable parson had quickly grown intimate with Hilda. The robust common sense of Protestantism has made it lawful for the clerical bosom to be affected in due measure by the charms of fair women, and the Vicar of All Souls had ever looked upon a good marriage as the culmination of his parochial activities. Hilda was handsome, rich, and sufficiently well born to be the equal of a minister of Christ who stayed with Duchesses for three days at a time; nor could he think she was quite indifferent to his attentions. Mr Farley determined to abandon the imperfect state of single blessedness, falling like a ripe apple at the feet of this comely and opulent widow; and as Othello, making love to Desdemona, poured into her astonished ears brave tales of pillage and assault, of hairbreadth 'scapes and enterprises perilous, the Rev Collinson Farley spoke of charities and sales of work, encounters with churchwardens, and the regeneration of charwomen. Hilda took great interest in All Souls, and willingly presented the church with an entire set of hassocks, so that, as the Vicar said, the pious should have no excuse for not kneeling at their prayers; somewhat later she consented to take a stall at a bazaar for getting a new organ; and then, the Rubicon of philanthropy once crossed, her efforts were untiring. These things brought them constantly together and afforded endless matter for conversation; but Mr Farley flattered himself he was a brilliant talker, and it would have been contrary to all his principles to allow their intercourse to be confined to affairs of business. The claims of culture were not forgotten. He lent Hilda books, and went with her to picture-galleries and to exhibitions; sometimes they read Tennyson together, at others visited the theatre and discussed the moral aspects of the English drama; on fine mornings they frequently studied the Italian masters in Trafalgar Square or the Elgin marbles at the British Museum. Mr Farley had a vast fund of information, and could give historic details or piquant anecdotes about every work of art; and Hilda, with a woman's passion for being lectured, found him in consequence an entertaining and instructive friend. But it had never occurred to her that any warmer feeling agitated the heart which lay beneath his immaculate silk waistcoat, and it was not without alarm that now she found the conversation verging to topics that before they had never touched upon. Mr Farley had at length made up his mind, and since he was not a man to hesitate from feelings of diffidence, went straight to the point.
'Mrs Murray,' he said, 'I have a matter of some importance which I desire to impart to you.'
'More charities, Mr Farley?' she cried. 'You'll ruin me.'
'You are a veritable angel of mercy, and your purse is ever open to the needs of the parish; but on this occasion it is of a more personal matter that I desire to speak.' He stood up and went to the fireplace, against which he stood so that no heat should enter the room at all. 'I feel it my duty to preface the question I am about to ask by some account of my position and of my circumstances. I think it better to run the risk of being slightly tedious than to fail to make myself perfectly clear.'
Certainly Hilda could not help seeing to what his words tended, and after the first moment of consternation was seized with an almost irresistible desire to laugh. Perhaps because her love for Basil was so great, she had never dreamed that another man could desire her; and Mr Farley in this con
nection had not for a moment occupied her thoughts. When she looked at him now, well dressed, his grey hair carefully done, his hands manicured, with his easy assurance and his inclination to obesity, the Vicar of All Souls seemed a profoundly ridiculous object. Gravely, with deliberation, he set out the advantages of his state, and not without decorum explained that he was no penniless fortune-hunter. It was a fair exchange that he offered, and many women would have been grateful. Hilda knew she should stop him, but had not the readiness; nor was she without a malicious desire to know in what precise terms he would make the proposal. He paused abruptly, smiled, and stepped forward.
'Mrs Murray, I have the honour to ask you to be my wife.'
Now she was confronted by the necessity to answer, and with all her heart wished she had possessed strength of mind to prevent the man from going so far.
'I'm sure I feel enormously flattered,' she replied awkwardly. 'It never struck me that you – cared for me in that way.'
He put out a deprecating hand.
'I don't want an immediate answer, Mrs Murray. It's a matter that requires grave consideration, and we're neither of us children to plunge into marriage recklessly. It's a great responsibility that we are proposing to take on ourselves, but I should like you to reflect on the real good that you could do as my wife. Do you remember that beautiful passage in Tennyson : "And hand in hand we will go towards higher things"?'
The door opened, and the Vicar of All Souls was able to conceal his annoyance only because he was a very polite man; but Hilda, enormously relieved, turned to Frank Hurrell, the incoming visitor, with the greatest cordiality. Frank had been to Basil's chambers, but not finding him, was come to Charles Street resolved, whatever the cost, to speak with Mrs Murray about Jenny. It looked, however, as though the opportunity would not present itself, for other callers appeared, and the conversation became general. In a little while Basil was announced, and Frank saw Mrs Murray's hurried, anxious glance. With one sweep of her eyes she took in his whole person, his harassed air, his stern pallor and deep depression. She spoke laughingly, but he scarcely smiled, gazing at her with such an expression of anguish that her heart was horribly troubled. It was very painful to see his utter wretchedness. At length Frank found himself with Hilda out of earshot of the others.
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