by E. F. Benson
Indeed, Mrs. Fanshawe was afraid that she had not been far astray when, on first marrying, she had formed the conclusion that Elizabeth was a selfish sort of girl. She had believed then that she had a great affection for her father (who really rather spoiled her) and had tried, the dear fellow, to spoil his wife as well; but now, so quietly did Elizabeth take her bereavement, she was afraid that, after all, her affection for her father was not so very deep. Otherwise she must have found the writing of the memoir a work at which it was an agonizing yet exquisite pleasure to assist. Otherwise, again, Elizabeth could not have been so remarkably industrious in her music; she could not, within a couple of months of her father’s death, begin a course of instruction in the piano at the Royal Institute. She would have been unable to give her mind, as she was undoubtedly doing, to this very nice accomplishment of playing the piano, but have immured herself in the privacy of Oakley Street, and refused to see anybody but her stepmother, to whom she must have been irresistibly drawn by the bond of their common sorrow. Incidentally, too, these music lessons seemed to Mrs. Fanshawe very expensive for the gratification of a mere luxurious whim, and the thought of them often impelled her to distant economical expeditions, implying a huge expense in taxi-cabs. It was on one of these that she had gone out this afternoon, the object being to purchase large quantities of violet soap, so cheap if you bought a large box of it, and other little things that would probably occur to her, from a shop in High Holborn. Though the distance was considerable, Elizabeth was surprised she was not back by the time the servant brought up tea; but since she might return any moment, and be querulous over the fact that tea was not made, she prepared it, risking the other possibility that it might be cold when her stepmother returned, who would then drink it with the air of a martyr, or be compelled, though she hated extravagance and unnecessary trouble to servants, to order a fresh teapot. One of the two was likely, since, as has been mentioned, the open space at the back of the house had been for the last fortnight the horrid little backyard.
But an agreeable surprise was in store. Mrs. Fanshawe came in before long in the most excellent spirits, full of affection and tenderness.
“And my dear little musical Cinderella has made tea,” she said, “all ready for her wicked stepmother! Darling, you should have come out with me, it is the loveliest day; you are too industrious. Perhaps this evening you will play to me something you have been so diligently practising.”
Elizabeth poured out tea.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been so very industrious, mamma,” she said. “I’ve been sitting in the window nearly an hour doing nothing.”
“Ah, it is not doing nothing to enjoy this sweet breeze and look at the daffodils in our sweet little garden. My dear, what a good cup of tea! Nobody makes tea like you. I often say it.”
She often did, though with quite a different nuance. But clearly the days of the horrid little backyard were over for the present.
“Such an afternoon as I have had, dear,” she continued. “You would never guess all the things that have happened to me. Who should I meet, for instance, in Isaacs and Redford’s but your Aunt Julia, so pleasant and full of welcome! And nothing would content her but that I must promise to bring you down to stay with her next Friday over the Sunday. Her dear little Elizabeth, she called you. We quite quarrelled over that. I said you were my dear little Elizabeth. She has been so busy, she said, since her return from Egypt in February, getting things straight after her long absence or she would have asked me many times before. I never thought it odd, I am glad to say, that she had not done so; I always refrained from wondering at it, though, to be sure, three months is a long time to take putting things straight after an absence of two. But now she quite insists on it; she simply would not let me go until I had promised, and she will send her motor to the station to meet whatever train we settle to travel by.”
Here was a prospect that had long daunted Elizabeth to look forward to, yet of necessity it must sometime come close to her. She had not so much as seen Edward since he handed her the telegram last August in Mrs. Hancock’s drawing-room; he and she, tacitly contriving together in sundered co-operation had averted that. Her heart leaped and sank and leaped again; she shrank from seeing him, and had not known till now, when in the natural course of events she must see him, how much she longed to. On her side there was no reasonable excuse to urge against the plan, and had there been she hardly knew whether she would have urged it. On his side, he might escape the meeting, say that he had arranged to take Edith away for the Sunday, but she felt sure that if he understood that she had consented to go down to her aunt’s he would not absent himself. He waited, so she instinctively knew, for a sign that she was willing to meet him. Otherwise he would long ago have been to see her. She quite understood his absence and his silence.
Any sign of emotion that might have escaped her was certainly not seen by her stepmother, who was full of the wonders of this afternoon. But Elizabeth felt that something beyond this invitation to Heathmoor had occurred to send Mrs. Fanshawe’s mental barometer up to such exhilarated serenity of fair weather, and she waited for it to be told her. It did not come at once; she mentioned first the other objects on which some ray had beamed which gilded and transfigured them.
“Such a long and dear talk I had with her,” she went on, “and she begged, if it did not hurt me too much, to bring down all the memoirs that I have written to read to her quietly. After she had gone I bought the soap and the other little things I wanted, which were even cheaper than I had anticipated, and you never would guess, dear, how I came back here. Perhaps you will scarcely believe it when I tell you, for I got on the top of a ‘bus, with my great box of soap and my other parcels, and came all the way right to the Chelsea Town Hall for threepence, not counting the sixpence with which I tipped the conductor, who was most obliging and helped me with my things. Really very polite! In spite of my packages, he of course saw I was not just a common woman like the rest of the passengers, and I hesitated whether I ought to have given him a shilling. But I have never enjoyed making a little economy and denying myself comforts more than I did when I got up on that ‘bus.”
No, it was not the ‘bus ride, so thought Elizabeth, that had produced this exhilaration and pleasure. She waited.
“But before I got up on to my ‘bus I gave myself just a little treat,” Mrs. Fanshawe proceeded, “and went into one of those electric palaces, as they call them, where you see the cinematograph. I was not quite sure whether it was the sort of thing that is thought respectable, and so I looked pretty closely at the programme before I entered. But I need not have been afraid; I never saw anything more refined, and you and I will go together one of these days, dear. So cheap, too; only a shilling. Why, you could go every day for a week and not spend more than in one evening in the dress-circle at the theatre.”
Mrs. Fanshawe looked up at Elizabeth with that glance of soft, shy helplessness which many men found so provocatively feminine and pleading, and called forth the instinct of protection in their somewhat unobservant minds. For, on the whole, nobody was less in need of protection than she; she was almost aggressively able to take care of herself.
“And I didn’t have to carry my parcels after all,” she said, “from where the ‘bus stopped, for whom should I see just coming out of the chemist’s there but that dear Sir Henry Meyrick, who was Commander-in-Chief in India. Do you remember? He came home only a couple of days ago on leave, and will be here till January. He stayed with us once at Peshawar, darling, in those happy, happy days!”
Mrs. Fanshawe took out her handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her eyes. This was a piece of ritual that had lost its practical significance (for there was not the semblance of moisture there), and was merely the outward and visible sign of an inward grief.
“I stayed with him afterwards at Simla,” she said, “and got, oh, so fond of him! It was while I was staying there, you know, that the news came that caused my poor heart to break. My dear, he was
like a woman for tenderness to me, and yet he had the strength of a man; and I can never, never forget what I owe dear Sir Henry. If it had not been for him I am convinced I should quite have broken down, or even made away with myself.”
Elizabeth felt sure that she had here the origin of the wonderful rise in her stepmother’s spirits. And an idea, horrible to contemplate, came close to her and stared her in the face. She resolutely turned away from it.
“Yes, I remember him quite well,” she said. “I thought you found him rather foolish and ridiculous.”
“Foolish and ridiculous!” said Mrs. Fanshawe, with great energy. “I cannot imagine what you mean, Elizabeth. You must be confusing him with some one else.”
“Perhaps I am,” said the girl. “It is stupid of me. How was he looking?”
Mrs. Fanshawe calmed down at once and became softly pathetic again.
“Oh, so different to what he was when you saw him,” she said, “when he was so cheery and jolly, and made all the women in Peshawar fall in love with him. At least, I am sure that I did. He looked so anxious and unhappy, Elizabeth, that my heart quite went out to him, and I longed to comfort him. And he brightened up so when he saw me; he looked quite radiant again. And you will never guess what a pretty welcome he gave me, though of course it was very foolish of him. He said, ‘My dear little girl — my dear little girl!’ twice over, just like that. And he held out both his hands to me, and dropped his umbrella in a puddle and never seemed to notice it. And there was I with my arms full of great heavy parcels. I declare for a moment I was quite ashamed before so true a gentleman as Sir Henry is. And he took all the parcels from me — and oh, my dear, it was so wonderful to me in my loneliness in the crowded streets to be taken care of again like that! — and carried them right up to the door, and gave them to Mary when she opened it. He would not let me touch them again myself.”
Again the idea stood close to Elizabeth, holding her, so it seemed, not letting her turn her face away. And the soft, childlike voice went on.
“He asked after you, too,” she said, “so nicely and affectionately. He would not come in then, for he had some other appointment; and though he wanted to break it I did not let him. But he is coming to dine here to-night. I shall not think of making any extra preparation for him. He will like it best just to see me in my quiet, modest little house just naturally.”
There was a moment’s rather awkward pause, for Mrs. Fanshawe had to consider how to reintroduce a topic that had been spoken of that morning between her and Elizabeth in hours of the “horrid little backyard.” Elizabeth had wanted to go to the Queen’s Hall to attend a concert of the most ravishing character that was to be performed that night, but had given up the idea owing to a marked querulousness on her stepmother’s part at the prospect of passing a deserted evening. There had even been pained wonder at the girl caring to go out to an evening of pleasure so soon. But she was not apt to be troubled at her own inconsistencies, and the pause was not long.
“He will be sorry not to see you, I am sure, darling,” she said, “but I think you told me you were going to a concert at the Queen’s Hall. Very likely you will not be in till nearly eleven, and you may be sure I shall have a nice cosy little supper ready for you when you come back.”
To Elizabeth this seemed but to confirm the idea that had forced itself on her; it needed, at any rate, little perspicacity to see that her stepmother, with the prospect of dining alone with Sir Henry, wanted her to keep the engagement which, in deference to her desire, she had abandoned. Nor was she surprised at the tenderness that followed. Mrs. Fanshawe rose in willowy fashion from her chair and stood behind Elizabeth’s, gently stroking her hair.
“I want you to enjoy all the pleasures that I can contrive for you, dear,” she said. “He whom we both miss so dreadfully, I know would wish us to enjoy— ‘richly to enjoy,’ does not the Bible say? He would have hated to think that we were going to lose all our gaiety and happiness.”
Elizabeth felt physically unable to bear the touch of that insincere, caressing hand. She got up quickly.
“Yes, mamma,” she said; “I am sure of that. I have tried not to lose the joy of life.”
“So right, darling!” said Mrs. Fanshawe, in a dreadful little cooing voice. “And we have helped each other, I hope, in that. I know you have helped me. I will not let my life be spoiled and broken; it would grieve him so.”
She paused a moment with handkerchief-ritual, and with her head a little on one side, spoke with childlike timidity.
“It was lovely being taken care of again,” she said, “though only in a little matter like having a parcel carried. Are you going now, dear? Enjoy yourself, my sweetest, and stop till the very end of your concert. I know what a treat music is to you; I would not have you miss a note.”
Elizabeth felt the need of air after this interview, and having an hour yet to spare before she need think of going to the concert, went down the broad, quiet street and on to the Thames Embankment at its lower end. She felt stifled by this atmosphere of insincerity from which she had come; she choked at the pitiful nauseating deception that she believed almost deceived her stepmother and caused her to refer to the duty of behaving as her late husband would have had her behave, at all her little subterfuges for facilitating her own arrangements. The falseness of it all was so blatant, so palpable that it would not have deceived a baby, and yet Elizabeth was not wrong in thinking that it largely deceived the very author of it. Her acting might not appear at all life-like to her audience, but it seemed real to herself. For years she had, while diligently pursuing paths of complete selfishness, been employed, so to speak, on modelling a figure of herself, that was winning, child-like, and trustingly devoted to the love of others, and now regarding that, with conscious approval, she had come to believe that it was the very image of herself. And Elizabeth felt sure (and again was not mistaken) that Mrs. Fanshawe was even now getting herself into another graceful pose for the reception of Sir Henry. To say that she was deliberately laying herself out to attract him would have been the coarsely true way of putting it, but things that were coarse and things that were true were almost equally abhorrent to Mrs. Fanshawe’s mind. She told herself that she owed a great debt to Sir Henry for his kindness and sympathy at her husband’s death, a debt that she would never be able to repay. She was bound to treat him as an old friend, to confide in him her plans for the future; to tell him how she was “oh, so content” to live quietly here, devoting her life to Elizabeth, who was so sweet to her. And she would somehow make it appear that it was her own sweetness, not Elizabeth’s, that she was really talking about. She would hint that she was a great deal alone, but that it was by her own wish that Elizabeth spent so many evenings enjoying herself with hearing music. Elizabeth was right, “oh, so right!” to do it. And Elizabeth, thinking over these things, executed a few wild dance steps on a lonely piece of the Embankment, from sheer irritation at the thought. She wondered also whether her stepmother would show Sir Henry the written chapters of the Memoir. She rather thought not.
This little ebullition of temper passed, and she let her mind quiet down again as she leaned her elbows on the stone balustrade and looked out over the beautiful river, which brimmed and swirled just below, for the tide, near to full flood, was pouring up from the sea, still fresh and strong and unwearied by its journey. Barges were drifting up with it in a comfortable, haphazard sort of fashion, and a great company of sea-gulls hovered near, chiding and wheeling together. The hour was a little after sunset, and the whole sky was bright with mackerel-markings of rosy cloud, and the tawny river, reflecting these, was covered with glows and gleams. Opposite, the trees in the park were dim in the mist of fresh green that lay over them, blurring the outlines which all the winter had stood stark and clear-cut under cold, grey skies. And the triumphant tide of springtime which flushed everything with the tingle of new growth, unfolding the bells of the tulips in the patches of riverside garden, and making the sparrows busy with gathering
sticks and straws for their nestings, sent a sudden thrill through Elizabeth’s heart, and she was conscious again, as she had not been for many weary weeks, of the youth and glory of the world. From the great sea of life came the vivifying wave, covering for the moment the brown seaweed tangle of her trouble that had lain dry and sun-baked so long, flushing and freshening and uplifting it.
Relieved of its irritation, and refreshed by this good moment of spring evening, her mind went back to her stepmother. She felt sure that it was her intention to marry that jolly old warrior, if it could possibly be managed, and that she was going to employ all her art in the shape of her artlessness and simplicity to bring that about. It was but eight months since her husband had died, but, after all, what did that matter? The actual lapse of time had very little to do with the question, and she would be sure to have touching and convincing reasons for such a step. It had seemed horrible at first to Elizabeth, but where, after all, was the horror? Of course, her dead husband would have wished her to be happy. Elizabeth knew her father well enough to know that, and it was only horrible that she should give (as she undoubtedly would) as a reason for her marrying again what she knew his wishes would be on the subject. Whether Sir Henry would be brought up to the point was another matter, and on this Elizabeth had no evidence except her stepmother’s account of their meeting. But clearly Mrs. Fanshawe thought that things promised well.
Elizabeth’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Only once had the grass sprung up on that far-distant grave; not yet had the Memoir, so quickly taken in hand, been completed.
“Daddy, daddy!” she said aloud.
She turned from the rosy river, and set out to walk down the Embankment to the next bridge, from where she proposed to take the conveyance that had thrilled her stepmother that afternoon with a sense of incredible adventure. The pavement stretched empty and darkening in front of her, and at the far end the lamplighter had started on his luminous round. Some two hundred yards off a figure was walking quickly towards her, and long before she could distinguish face or feature, Elizabeth, with heart in sudden tumult, saw who it was. Almost at the same moment she saw him pause suddenly in his rapid progress, and halt as if undetermined whether or no to turn and retrace his steps. But he came on again, and soon they stood face to face. All the tumult in her had died down again; she held out her hand with the friendliest, most unembarrassed smile.
