by E. F. Benson
“My dear, I am sure you have some trouble,” she said, “and, though I would be the last to ask you about it, is there not anybody you could consult? Perhaps your wanting to go back to your father means that you think he could help you. But is there no one here? Could you not tell Edith, if she does not know about it already? Or there is Mr. Martin. You would find him all kindness and wisdom. I often think of him as my mind-doctor, to whom I would certainly go myself if I was worried.”
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Julia,” said she. “But I don’t think I will worry Mr. Martin. I should like to tell daddy about it, and I shall.”
“But it would be no worry for Mr. Martin,” said Mrs. Hancock. “He is so used to hearing about other people’s troubles. It is quite his profession. He has often said to me that his wish is to bring joy to people and take away their wretchedness. Such a noble career! I can’t think why they don’t make him a bishop.”
Elizabeth gave a little squeal of laughter, as unexpected to herself as it was to her aunt.
“I don’t think I will, really, Aunt Julia,” she repeated.
This appeared to Mrs. Hancock another bit of selfishness. It seemed to her quite likely that Mr. Martin’s really magical touch might easily remove Elizabeth’s trouble, in which case Egypt and the patience-table blossomed again instead of withering on their stalks. But she determined not to give it all up quite yet and abandon Elizabeth, so it represented itself to her, to the moral pit of her selfishness.
Mr. Martin, who dined with Mrs. Hancock that evening, and spoke of Egypt as if it was a newly acquired possession of hers, like her motor or the gate that had, in spite of Edward’s luke-warmness on the subject, been put into the wall that separated the two gardens, trumpeted her praise in his usual manner.
“We shall miss you terribly,” he said. “Heathmoor will not be itself without you. But still how right you are to go and see it all for yourself. You take your car with you? No? Then I shall be down on Denton and expect him to stop for my sermon every Sunday morning, poor fellow! instead of stealing out to bring your car back for you. Poor Denton! Ha, ha! He’ll be glad, I’ll warrant, when you come back again and he can shirk the padre’s jaw as usual. An excellent fellow, Denton! Upon my word, I am sorry for him. I shall skip a page or two every now and then if Denton looks too reproachfully at me.”
“Alfred, Alfred!” said his wife.
“I shall nobble — isn’t it nobble, Edward? — I shall nobble Denton to sing psalms in the choir,” said Mr. Martin, “while Mrs. Hancock is away. He will have no car to take back after she has gone to church. Yes, yes; give Denton a dose of David to begin with, and Alfred to finish up with!” Mr. Martin looked furtively round to see if Lind was amused, and Mrs. Martin put her hand to her face.
“Alfred, Alfred!” she said. “Is not Alfred naughty!”
Mrs. Hancock beamed delightedly. This wild religious badinage always pleased her. It seemed to make a human thing of religion, to bring it into ordinary life.
“I will leave Denton in your hands,” she said, “with the utmost confidence.”
“So long as we don’t make a clergyman of him before you come back,” suggested Mr. Martin. “We won’t do that; there are many mansions, and I’m sure that a good fellow in his garage occupies one of them. We all have got our mansion, have we not? You, Miss Elizabeth, in your music, Edward here in the City, though he’s a lucky fellow to be sure, for he has a musical mansion as well. And we all meet; we all meet.”
This was a shade more solemn than Mr. Martin’s usual dinner-table conversation, and Mrs. Hancock, crumbling her bread with dropped eyes, saw here a very good gambit to open with again in a little serious conversation she meant, if possible, to have with him afterwards. Then the appearance of a very particular salad roused her immediate attention.
“This you must eat, Mr. Martin,” she said; “it is the new sort of lettuce which Ellis insisted on my getting. I am told that in Egypt it is quite unsafe to eat salad or any raw vegetable, for you can’t tell who has been touching it, or what sort of water it has been washed in. It’s the same in India, is it not, Elizabeth?”
Mr. Martin turned briskly to the girl.
“And why don’t you join your aunt in her tour to Egypt?” he said. “It’s all on the way back to India, is it not? Why not put Afric’s sunny fountains in before India’s coral strands? Dear me, how wonderful Bishop Heber’s grasp is!”
This was indeed another coincidence, that Mr. Martin should suggest, quite without consultation, the very scheme that Mrs. Hancock had “planned and contrived.” That Mr. Martin should think of it quite independently, seemed to Mrs. Hancock a tremendous, almost a religious, argument in its favour.
“Well, that is odd now that you should have mentioned that,” she said, “for I was proposing to Elizabeth only this morning that she should do that very thing. And that Mr. Martin should agree with me! Well!”
Edward looked up, caught Elizabeth’s eye, ricocheted, so to speak, on to Edith’s, and returned in time to catch the drift of Mr. Martin’s further comment on Bishop Heber. Mrs. Hancock saw the sudden colour flame in Elizabeth’s face, saw the glance that played between her three young people, and shut more firmly than ever the door into which she had thrust her conjecture on this subject. She entirely refused to recognize the possible existence of anything so very uncomfortable. Mr. Martin observed that his wife had got well under way again with Bishop Heber, and spoke confidently to his hostess.
“I’ve got schemes in my head, too, about Egypt,” he said, “though I don’t know that they will come to anything. I want to send my dear Minnie to the South for a month or two of the winter. You remember, perhaps, how unwell she was last winter, and what wonderful jellies Mrs. Williams sent her. Indeed, if I think I can manage it, I believe I shall really have the courage to suggest that she goes out about the same time as you, so that she won’t be quite alone in the land of bondage. Of course, I don’t for the moment hint at her actually joining your party. But hush, Mrs. Hancock, we are observed! I have not said a word about it to her yet.”
It was impossible that Mrs. Hancock should not feel that Providence had kindly turned his attention to her disappointment about Elizabeth and the Egyptian tour. It was true that the even more harrowing subject of her lonely October — in case Elizabeth persisted in her selfishness — had not at present attracted his notice, but this suggestion of Mr. Martin’s seemed to her to be a direct and Divine contrivance for her comfort. She had no wish to examine into the logic of her belief; she did not dream of inquiring if she really thought that Mrs. Martin had suffered from bronchitis last winter in order that her husband might think of sending her South now, so that Mrs. Hancock should have somebody to attend to her in Egypt, but she felt that Elizabeth perhaps was not intended to go to Egypt, which being so, Providence, having a special regard for her comfort, had put forward this utterly unexpected idea to see if she liked it. She did like it. She also formed the conclusion that she on her side was meant not to urge Elizabeth any more, nor even to see if Mr. Martin could not probe and heal her trouble. It was evident that her entire arrangements were being seen after for her. But she had to meet this half-way, to acquiesce thankfully, and help it on. She turned beamingly to Mr. Martin.
“The very thing!” she said. “And as for dear Mrs. Martin not being of our party, how could you suggest such an idea?”
Some subject cognate to Bishop Heber was actively engaging Mrs. Martin, and Mrs. Hancock could speak without fear of being overheard.
“She shall share my sitting-room, as my guest, of course, and everything,” she said. “And after dinner you and I must have a couple of words together, if it is only the question of expense that troubles you. If there is any difficulty there you must allow me to help. And Elizabeth says, for the matter of that, that the second-class cabins on the liners to Port Said are every bit as good as the first.”
This offer to help was not so precipitate as it sounded. Mrs. Hancock had seriously consid
ered during the afternoon what the expense of a companion would be, and had come to the conclusion that if Elizabeth would not join her, she would be able to afford it. But this providential idea would save her the greater part of that expense, for no doubt, if she could persuade Mr. Martin to let her pay (since she would then be saved the full expenses of a companion) some forty pounds or perhaps thirty towards Mrs. Martin’s travelling, his doubts on the subject of whether it could be afforded would be completely removed. She would tell him that she looked on it as a form of charity, which he must not be too proud to accept. She was subscribing to Mrs. Martin’s efficiency in parochial work, which was a clear duty. Mrs. Martin must be induced to see it in the same light, and she surely would, when she saw that her husband and Mrs. Hancock were so completely in accord on the subject. And if — if behind that locked door in her mind there was shut up the true reason for Elizabeth’s unwillingness to go to Egypt, how wonderfully it had been conveyed to her that she must not urge her any more. That, of course, was the most important thing of all. She must also cease from accusing Elizabeth in her mind of any selfishness. She must dismiss it all now, not even wonder whether it was true or not. Providence had locked the door on it, and indicated, quite unmistakably, that Elizabeth was not to go to Egypt. Providence, too, had caused her pass-book to be returned to her disclosing a very sound position; even forty pounds would not worry her at all. But that was no reason why she should not see whether thirty would not put Mr. Martin’s mind at ease on the question of expense. She would certainly ask Elizabeth to play to them after dinner, and go out into the garden with Mr. Martin to enjoy the music from there.
Mr. Martin, left alone with Edward after dinner, had another glass of port before he took his cigarette on general principles of bonhomie and partaking in the pleasure of other people, and also on the particular principle that Mrs. Hancock’s port was a very charming beverage. He continued also to trumpet her praises in a confidential manner.
“The most generous woman I know!” he said. “You are indeed lucky to be allying yourself with her daughter. An instance occurred at dinner. I mentioned that I was thinking of sending my wife South for the winter — not a word of this yet to anybody, my dear fellow — and she guessed that expense might be a serious consideration to me. I had but ever so faintly alluded to it. Instantly she offered to help, suggesting that my wife should be of her party. You join them, I think, you and your bride, at Cairo, do you not?”
“That is the idea.”
“A very good one. And Miss Elizabeth, is she going too? It seemed to have occurred to her aunt.”
Edward got up.
“I know she thought of it,” he said, “but — but I do not suppose Elizabeth will go. Shall we join the others? I get scolded if we stop in the dining-room too long.”
“Certainly, certainly, if you will allow me one more whiff of this excellent cigarette. Mrs. Hancock always gives her guests of the very best. And how much more, my dear fellow, has she given you her best of all.”
Edward did not reply to this, but waited in silence while Mr. Martin took his one whiff. As they crossed the hall the front-door bell sounded and Lind took in a telegram.
“Miss Elizabeth, sir,” he said to Edward.
Edward just glanced at it; it was a foreign telegram.
“I’ll take it in,” he said.
Mrs. Hancock had stationed herself strategically near the window, so that she could easily stroll out with Mr. Martin.
“There you are,” she said; “and you’ve both been good and not waited too long. Now let us have some music. There’s room for you here, Mr. Martin. Who will begin — you, Edward, or Elizabeth? I meant to have got some duets for you, and then you could have played together. What is that, Edward?”
“A telegram for Elizabeth,” he said.
“Open it then, dear,” said Mrs. Hancock to the girl. “We’ll excuse you.”
The little hush that so often attends the opening of a telegram fell on the room as Elizabeth tore open the thin paper. She looked at the message, and, standing quite still, handed it to her aunt. It was from her stepmother, and told her that her father had died of cholera that morning.
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER XII
APRIL EVENING
Elizabeth was sitting in the drawing-room window of the little house that her mother and she had taken in Oakley Street on a warm, uncertain afternoon of April in the following year. The window was wide open and the breeze that blew in from the south-west ruffled the leaves of the music that stood open on the piano. It seemed to the girl’s indolent mood that there was quite a good chance of their not blowing on to the floor, and since that was so, she much preferred going to pick them up if this happened rather than disturb herself for fear of its happening. Outside there was a small brick-walled enclosure, with strips of flower-bed, bright, nodding with daffodils, and a fig-tree, rather sooty in foliage, and hopelessly incapable of bearing any fruit at all, was thrusting out broad handlike leaves from its angled boughs. This enclosure Mrs. Fanshawe was accustomed to call “that dreadful little backyard” when she felt like that, but in more cheerful moods alluded to it as “that dear little garden.” For some days past it had been a dreadful little backyard.
Colonel Fanshawe had left his widow and daughter in circumstances that admitted of comfort and demanded care, and Mrs. Fanshawe sometimes complained of, sometimes rather enjoyed the practice of economy. Elizabeth was rather afraid of those bouts of economical enjoyment, for they meant that Mrs. Fanshawe was apt to order more coal than the cellar would possibly hold, as she got a cheaper quotation for large quantities, or would take a taxicab to some far-distant shop in Oxford Street, keep it waiting an hour and drive back in it bursting with innumerable packages. She would then gleefully reckon up the saving she had effected by not buying the same goods at the shop just round the corner; sometimes it amounted to as much as two shillings, in which case she would give Elizabeth quite a little homily on the virtue of thrift and the immense importance of looking after the pence. The shillings apparently as represented by the taxi were capable of looking after themselves. After this thrifty afternoon she would feel that a little treat was owing to them, and she would take Elizabeth to a concert. At other times, still enjoying it, she would help in the housework, and, putting on a very pretty grey apron, dust the china on the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, or even clean the handle of the front door with some sample that had been sent her which was of unrivalled merit in polishing brasswork. She still required a great deal of rest to recuperate her from labours past, and fit her for those to come, and always had breakfast in bed. Apart from this necessary repose and the fatigue engendered by the practice of economies, her time for the last two months had been largely taken up in collecting materials for a “Short Memoir” of her late husband.
“I feel that I who know him best,” she said to Elizabeth, “owe it to his large circle of friends at home and abroad, who loved him, to tell them what I can about him. It is my duty, dear. In addition to that, his public service as a soldier was never properly appreciated by the War Office, and it is right that they should know what they have lost, now that it is too late.”
Elizabeth felt as if a file had been drawn across her front teeth, and her stepmother went on with a certain degree of complacency, with a sense of importance, and yet not without sincerity.
“It is so beautiful, that passage in ‘In Memoriam,’” she said, wiping her eyes, “where Tennyson says that to write about Mr. Hallam is a ‘sad narcotic, numbing pain.’ I know he would have understood my feeling about it, which is just that. I shall, of course, state in the preface my reasons for writing the memoir, and say that, though it is like tearing open a wound that will never heal, I owe it to my dear husband’s memory.”
She paused a moment.
“It will be privately printed, of course,” she said, “and I shall give it to all his friends. I was thinking of having a purple cloth binding with gilt lettering.”
“Won’t it be very expensive, mamma?” asked the girl.
“I cannot bring myself to think about the expense. You and I will have to be very economical, I know; but when a call of duty comes like this, I feel that no other consideration can stand in my way. If you think it quietly over, Elizabeth,” she said, again crying a little, “I believe you will agree with me, when you recollect all that your dear father was. It will help — I hope it will help — you to appreciate him, too, as well as the War Office.”
This awful little conversation, which held for Elizabeth a certain miserable wounding humour, had taken place soon after Mrs. Fanshawe had come back to England after her husband’s death. She had returned as soon as she had settled her affairs in India, and had sold, not unsuccessfully, the bungalow and all it contained, retaining only a few personal possessions of his and what belonged to Elizabeth and herself. This private property included many packets of his letters, which she tied up in a black ribbon and bestowed in an immense tin dispatch-box, with “Corrospondence” (the orthography of which was not worth correcting) printed in white letters on it. This, indeed, had suggested to her the idea of the “Short Memoir,” and with it by the side of her chair or sofa she made masses of extracts, with a view to arranging them afterwards in the chapters on his second marriage and his home-life. The pieces which she selected for publication almost entirely consisted of affectionate words to herself, and she mostly omitted messages he sent to Elizabeth, or, indeed, anything that did not directly refer to his affection for his wife. Mrs. Hancock had been put under contribution to supply details about his boyhood and early manhood, which similarly consisted for the most part in stories to show how fond he was of her. These for a month had poured in in immense quantities, and before they came to an end Mrs. Fanshawe had begun to find them exceedingly tedious. Dry details, in the same way, about his military service, did not so much engage Mrs. Fanshawe’s attention, and it was Elizabeth’s duty to get the facts about those from Army Lists, while she, during the long winter evenings, searched through his letters for fresh instances of his devotion to her, and wrote and had typewritten the preface, which was on the lines already indicated. The chapter on “Social Life in India” was already arranged also, in a rambling sort of fashion, and showed without the slightest doubt how popular Mrs. Fanshawe was at dinner-parties and balls, and how her husband, with the wonderful confidence and trust he had in her, was never the slightest bit jealous. His first wife, Elizabeth’s mother, was scarcely to be mentioned in the “Short Memoir.” She might have been a week-end visitor who had not made much impression on him....
