by E. F. Benson
This was disquieting, unsettling; it was as if the house in which she dwelt — her own mind and body — which she had thought so well-founded and securely built — was suddenly shaken as by an earthquake shock, and she realized with a touch of panic-fear that outside her, and yet knit into her very soul, were forces unmanifested as yet which might prove to be of dominant potency.
Then, suddenly, her mood changed; their power was frightening no longer, they were wholly benignant and life-giving. It was not an earthquake shock that had frightened her, it was but the first beam of some new-rising sun that had struck on to the darkness of the world in which she had lived till now. She was smitten “by the first beam from the springing East,” she who had never known before what morning was, or how fair was the light which it pours on to the world. And this morning beam was for her; it had not struck her fortuitously, shedding its light on her and others without choice. It had come to shine into her window, choosing that above all others. It was she that the first beam sought. It came to gild and glorify her house, her body and mind, the place where her soul dwelt.
How blind she had been! There was no difference in him; the difference had been in her alone. She had sat with sealed eyes at her window, or, at the most, with eyes that could but see the shadows and not the sun. Now they saw the sun only; there were no shadows, for the shadows had been but her own blindness.
Dawn was in the sky outside; here in the quiet, white-curtained room another dawn had come, not quiet, but with gleam of sun alternating with cloud and tempest, making the beholder wonder what the day would bring forth.
Aunt Jeannie, too, had lain long awake, but when sleep came it came deeply and dreamlessly, demanding the repair of two nights in the train and the agitation of her talk. She had given orders that she was not to be called till she rang, and when she woke the sun was already high, and the square outside lively with passengers and traffic. But it was with a sense of coming trial and trouble, if not quite of disaster, that she woke.
It was disaster she had to avert; she had to think and scheme. But had she known of Daisy’s sleepless night, and the cause of that, she would have felt that the anchor which prevented the situation drifting into disaster had been torn up. For the anchor was the belief, as Lady Nottingham had told her, that Daisy was not in love with Tom Lindfield, and by one of fate’s little ironies, at the very moment when she was comforting herself last night with that thought it was true no longer.
Her sleep had quite restored her, giving vigour to her body and the power of cool reflection to her brain, and when Victor came, according to promise, to see her during the morning there was no hint of trouble in her welcome of him, nor did he guess that any disquieting news had reached her. And his conclusion, though not actually true, was justly drawn, for the peace and the sense of security which she felt in his presence was of a kind that nothing else, except danger and disaster to it itself, could disturb.
It was a very tender, a very real part of her nature that was troubled, but the trouble did not reach down into these depths. Nor did she mean to speak of this trouble to him at all; a promise had been made by her to keep it as secret as could be. Hitherto the secret had been completely kept; it had passed the lips of none of the few who knew. But to-day she would be obliged to speak of it to Alice, for her plan to avert disaster was already half formed, but she dared not embark on it alone without counsel from another. For an utterly unlooked-for stroke of fate, supreme in its irony, that Daisy should be meditating marriage with the one man in the world whom it was utterly impossible that she should marry, had fallen, and at all costs the event must be averted.
CHAPTER IX.
The two girls, as had been already arranged, set off during the morning for the river-side house at Bray, where they would be joined next day by Lady Nottingham and the rest of her party; and Aunt Jeannie, returning home shortly before lunch, found that Daisy and Gladys had already gone, and that the hour for her consultation with her friend was come. For the situation admitted of no delay: in a sky that till yesterday had been of dazzling clearness and incomparable serenity there had suddenly formed this thunder-cloud, so to speak, hard, imminent, menacing. It was necessary, and immediately necessary (such was the image under which the situation presented itself to her mind), to put up a lightning-conductor over Daisy’s room. It was the nature of the thunder-cloud that she had now to make known to Lady Nottingham: that done, between them they had to devise the lightning-conductor, or approve and erect that one which she had already designed in her mind during the sleepless hours of the night before. It was of strange design: she hardly knew if she had the skill to forge it. For the forging had to be done by her.
They lunched together, and immediately afterwards went to Lady Nottingham’s sitting-room, where they would be undisturbed, for she had given orders that neither the most urgent of telephones nor the most intimate of callers were to be admitted. They drank their coffee in silence, and then Jeannie got up.
“I have got to tell you, Alice,” she said, “about that which only yesterday I said I hoped I should never be obliged to speak of to anybody. I suppose the envious Fates heard me; certainly the words were scarcely out of my mouth before the necessity arose. What I have got to tell you about is that which all last autumn was harder for me to get over, I think, than all that I had been through myself. Only yesterday I believed it to be all dead; I believed it to be at most a memory from which time had already taken the bitterness. But I was completely and signally wrong. It is dead no longer; it is terribly alive, for it has had a resurrection which would convert a Sadducee. It is connected with the reason why Daisy can never marry Tom Lindfield. It is more than connected with it; it is the reason itself.”
Jeannie had begun to speak standing by the fireplace and facing the full light of the window, but here she moved, and wheeling a chair with its back to the light, sat down in it. She wanted to be a voice and no more — a mere chronicle of a few hard, dry, irrevocable facts, things that had happened, and could not be altered or softened. There was no comment, no interpretation to be made. She had just to utter them; Alice Nottingham had just to hear them.
“You may have to give me time, my dear,” she said, “for it will be as much as I can do, I am afraid, just to get through with the telling of it. Yes, I am already frightening you, I know. I do that on purpose, because I want to prepare you for a story that must shock and disturb you very much. I wondered last night whether I could manage without telling you, whether I could spare your hearing it all, but I find I can’t. I can’t act alone in this, on my own responsibility. Perhaps you may be able to think of some plan which will make mine unnecessary, and I would give a great deal for that to happen. But some plan must be made and carried out. Something has to be done.”
She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then took them away, and spoke, slowly and carefully, so that there might be no need for further explanation of what she said.
“Of course you remember Diana, Daisy’s sister,” she said, “though you would remember her more as a name than as a person, for I think you never knew her at all well. She married very early, you know; she married that nice Frenchman, Monsieur Dupré. After that she lived abroad till the time of her death. The fact of that you will certainly remember, though it is now some years since it happened. Where are we? Yes, 1908. Then Diana died in 1903, five years ago. So at least we were told at the time. It was in 1903 that we, all of us, you, Daisy, and I, believed that Diana died.”
Jeannie gave a long sigh.
“My story of why Daisy cannot marry Tom Lindfield has begun, dear Alice,” she said, “for Diana did not die then. She lived for four years after that, and died last autumn only, in my arms, thank God! I thank God, my dear, that she died, and I thank God that I was with her. There was no one else, not her husband even.”
Alice Nottingham turned on her a face that was puzzled, and was beginning to get frightened.
“But what does it all mean?” she said.
“It is very disquieting, very strange, but what does it lead to? Daisy — Tom Lindfield.”
“I am telling you as shortly as I can,” said Jeannie. “Do not interrupt me, dear. It was last autumn she died, not five years ago as we had supposed. Five years ago she was — was found out, if you understand — she was found to have been living with another man not her husband. He learned that, and he forgave her, for he adored her with a tender, unwavering devotion that is very rare. She was to him like a child who has been naughty and must be forgiven. Then in a few weeks only after that she fell again. Even then he did not divorce her, or make her bear the shame and publicity of what she had done; he simply let her go.”
Jeannie was still speaking slowly and quietly, as if reading out some report which had to be mastered by her friend. But on the words “let her go” her voice trembled a little. But then she again recaptured the completeness of her self-control.
“Whether that was wise or not,” she said, “whether it might not have been better if he had let Diana bear the punishment that human law has ordained for those poor things who behave as she behaved, we need not inquire. Nor need I tell you the details of how it was all managed, which I learned from Diana so few weeks before she died last year. It is sufficient for me to say that they left their home near Amiens together, ostensibly for a long foreign travel. After some weeks he sent home the news of her sudden death; he sent the news also to us in England. You were told, I and Daisy were told. And Diana, poor, poor Diana, went and lived in Paris.”
Again the bravely-suppressed emotion made Jeannie’s voice to quiver.
“That is what I mean when I said that M. Dupré let her go,” she said. “Often I think it was a barbarous kindness. He could not live with her any more — the fact that he loved her so much made that impossible — and he had either to divorce her or — or let her vanish into the glittering crowd of those who — who are made like that. He chose the latter: he accounted for her disappearance by the news, sent to Amiens and sent to us in England, that she had died.
“So five years ago Diana went to Paris, and for a time lived, not with the man who had taken her from her husband, but with another. During her married life she had lived in that beautiful country-house of his near Amiens, seldom going to Paris, and no one apparently ever found out who she really was. Then — —”
Again Jeannie paused — paused a long time; and before she spoke she put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision.
“Then she left that man,” she said, “and lived with another. You know him; I know him; Daisy also.”
It was as if Lady Nottingham had caught sight of that which made Jeannie cover her eyes, for she winced and drew back.
“Don’t — don’t!” she said; “I can’t bear that, please, Jeannie!”
At the sound of the beseeching voice Jeannie recovered all her self-control. She was wanted; Alice wanted her for comfort.
“Oh, my dear, you must not be afraid,” she said. “We have to face the facts and not be afraid of them, but do our best, and see how we can arrest or alter the train of their consequences. It was he — Tom Lindfield.”
Again she paused, and again continued, speaking quietly.
“I knew nothing of all this till a little over a year ago,” she said; “for even as M. Dupré had wished to spare Diana shame and publicity, so, I suppose, he wished to spare us the knowledge of what Diana had done, and it was thus that neither you nor Daisy nor I knew anything of it. I think perhaps he ought to have told us — told you and me, anyhow. But he did not, and it is of no use to think what we should have done if he had. But rather more than a year ago Diana herself wrote to me — wrote me a pitiful, heart-breaking letter. I thought at first it must be some grim practical joke, though I could not imagine who had played so cruel a trick, or why the trick had been played at all. But it was Diana’s handwriting, and she enclosed a photograph of herself, which I have now. It was impossible to mistake that: nothing could mar her beauty; and then it was signed and dated in her own hand. She wrote to say that she had been ill, that she was getting rapidly worse — it was of consumption, perhaps you remember, that her mother died — and she wanted to know if I would come to her. She wanted to tell me everything, and, thank God, she wanted me. So it was there that I went when I left England last year.
“I stayed with her till she died in that little gilded flat. And during that month she told me everything. It — it was a long story, Alice, and it was all set to one shameful tune. And I was not shocked; that would have made my being with her quite useless, to begin with, but, also, I did not feel inclined to be shocked. She was so like a child — a child that has gone wrong, if you will, but still a child. Whether she was ashamed or not I hardly know, for after she had told me of it all we never once spoke of it again. Certainly she wished, as passionately as she was capable in her poor dying state of wishing anything, that she should not bring shame or sorrow on others. Of all others that she wished to spare, most of all she wished to spare Daisy; and — a promise to a dying person is a very solemn thing — I promised that I would do all that lay in my power so that Daisy should not know. Till yesterday I thought that promise would never come up. But it has. Daisy must not conceivably marry him. Also, she must not know why. There is our crux.
“And one word more, in justice to him,” she added. “I am convinced he does not to this day know who it was with whom he lived in Paris. He knew me, for instance, and liked me; and I am sure he would not have lived with her knowing who she was. Oh, but, Alice, the misery, the sorrow of it all! You don’t know. You weren’t with Diana at the end. And I loved her. And I think her — her going so utterly wrong like that made me love her more. The pity of it! The hopeless, helpless sorrow of it! She did not want to die — —”
Jeannie’s voice choked for a moment.
“She wanted life, she wanted love, poor child. She was like some beautiful wild thing, without law. She didn’t think. She never loved her husband, who adored her. She didn’t think. And she died frightened — frightened at what might be in front of her. As if the Infinite Tenderness was not in front of her! As if Jesus Christ, the Man of many sorrows, was not there! Oh, Alice, how can we judge?”
“Ah, my dear, we don’t judge,” said she. “Anyhow, no judgment of ours has any effect. It is done with as far as she is concerned.”
Jeannie’s face suddenly brightened into a semblance of a smile. It was veiled, but it was but the flesh that veiled it; at the core it was wholly loving.
“Then we are content to leave dear Diana in the hands of the Infinite Pity?” she said. “That must be certain before we can talk further.”
“But with my whole heart,” said Lady Nottingham.
Again there was silence; and in that Jeannie openly dried the tears that were on her face. She had been crying: there was no question about that.
“I had to tell you, dear Alice,” she said at length. “I could not bear it alone. You see why it is impossible, beyond the bounds of speech, that Daisy should marry him. You see also why I thank Heaven that she does not love him. At all costs, also, Daisy must not know why it is impossible. That was my promise to Diana when she was dying. I would do anything within my power and the stretched-out limits of it to prevent her knowing. Diana, poor darling, wished for that. It was the last request she made. It is sacred to me, as sacred as my honour.”
“Do you mean to tell him?” asked Alice.
“I hope not to. I want to keep poor Diana’s secret as close as can be. And I am not in the least certain, from what I know of him, that it would do any good. If he wants Daisy, do you think a man like that would let that stand in his way? No, we must do better than that. Now, is he in love with her?”
“I can’t say. It is clear, however, that he wants to marry her. He has been in love so many times that one doubts if he has been in love at all. There was — —”
“Oh, spare me the list of his conquests. He has been in love many times. That is suff
icient.”
“Sufficient for what?”
“For the plan that has occurred to me as possible. I don’t say it is easy; I don’t say it is nice; but we want, above all things, to keep poor Diana’s dreadful secret, to let no one, if possible — and, above all, Daisy — know that it was her sister who lived those years in Paris, and in that manner.”
Jeannie got up.
“Clearly the easiest way of arriving at what we want is to make Daisy think that he has only been flirting with her,” she said— “that he is not serious. It will hurt the poor child, I know; but if she were in love with him, which you think she is not, it would hurt her far, far more. Therefore, we must waste no time. Any day, any moment, she may fall in love with him. He is extremely attractive.”
“Do you mean you will tell Daisy that he has only been flirting with her?” asked Alice.
“No, that would do no good. She would not believe it. Besides, any day also he may propose to her. No, it must be more convincing than that. She must see that which convinces her that he is not in earnest. We must make him, if we can, under Daisy’s very nose, flirt with somebody else. We must make him neglect her. I don’t know if it can be done, but we must try. At least, I can think of no other plan which will not involve telling Daisy all that we want to keep from her.”
“But how — who?” asked Alice.
“He is coming to Bray — Lord Lindfield, I mean?”
“Yes; he is coming to-morrow evening with the others.”
