by E. F. Benson
Apparently Mrs. Fanshawe was taking a rest from thinking about Elizabeth all the evening. She seemed to realize this and hurried back to her subject.
“And if it is sad for me, how much more sad it must be for you, darling, for you used to enjoy yourself so in India with your horses and dogs. I am sure you used to laugh fifty times a day out there, for once that I hear you laugh now. But it is not only of your loss of gaiety that I have been thinking so much. There are things more important than that, especially while you are young. The loss of your father’s care and thought for you makes such a dreadful blank, and I, weighed down with all the petty cares and economies which we have to practise, cannot look after you as constantly as I used. My days are so full with the care of the house, and with writing your dear father’s Memoir, which all these weeks has been to me nothing less than a sacred duty. And even if I was quite free, it would be impossible for me, a little weak, silly, helpless woman, to supervise your growing up with the wisdom and large grasp of a man. I have been doing my best, I think I can say that, but I know how feeble and wanting my best has been.”
There had been no opportunity, so continuous had been the prattle of this monologue, for Elizabeth to speak at all. For this she was grateful, for she would have found it difficult enough to frame any sincere reply to this endless tissue of insincerities that were only half-conscious of themselves. Mrs. Fanshawe had been so long accustomed to look upon the utterly inaccurate picture of herself, of which she was the artist, so long unaccustomed to look on the actual origin of it, that she really had got to confuse the two, or, rather, to obliterate the one in favour of the imaginary portrait. But to-night Elizabeth did not feel the smallest resentment at this imposture; she regarded her mother as she would have regarded some charade-acting child, and was willing to encourage its belief in the reality of its acting. For Mrs. Fanshawe, as for a child, this dressing-up was real. And Elizabeth could almost see her father listening with a smile that for all its tenderness did not lack humour. He would have been amused, surely, at it all. For all his own simplicity and sincerity, he had never wanted to improve and edify others. At the most he only encouraged them, like the beloved plants in his garden, to grow and blossom. Besides, he had loved his wife (for the life of her Elizabeth had never been able to guess why), and that simple fact — a fact which no one should try to explain away — took precedence of everything else.
There was a pause for a few gentle applications of a very small lace handkerchief, and it became incumbent on Elizabeth to say something. She knew, of course, perfectly well what her stepmother was leading up to, and since she appeared to find it difficult to come to the point, Elizabeth decided to help her.
“And so you and Sir Henry — —” she began.
That was quite enough. Mrs. Fanshawe rose swiftly from her chair, bent over her, and kissed her.
“My darling, yes,” she said. “And I am so glad you have guessed. I was so afraid it would come as a shock to you, that I only promised Henry that I would tell you to-night, if I could. I said he must trust to my instinct, as to whether I should not only begin to prepare you for it. I told him that he could not know, as I knew, how deeply you loved your father, and that I must judge whether to tell you at once or not. I said I would not wound my dear little Elizabeth’s heart for anything. But now you have guessed, how nice that is! And, oh, what a true and wise friend and second father you will find in him, Elizabeth! Do you wonder now, my darling, that I said how much I had been thinking of you all this evening!”
Suddenly it was borne in upon the girl that this play-acting was really going too far. It seemed impermissible to allow even a child to take its inventions quite so seriously. It was as if the child insisted on having real solid food and real champagne provided for its pasteboard banquet. Yet, yet — was there any gain to any one in saying, “Remember, you are only acting?” She knew well there was not. Detection and exposure of even such abominable insincerities as these never yet did any good to the — the criminal. It only made her resent the cruel perspicacity of their exposer, or possibly exercise a little more ingenuity in their inventions. She would be wiser to enter into the spirit of these imaginative flights. But it was like seeing somebody waving his arms, saying, “See, I am a bird; how high I fly!” and pretending to look upwards and be dazzled and made giddy by this reckless feat of aviation.
“It was sweet of you to think of me as well,” was as much as could humanly be expected of the best intentions.
That did not nearly satisfy Mrs. Fanshawe.
“My dear, my central thought was of you,” she declared. “Almost the first thing I said to Henry when — when he would not let me go, for he has such an affectionate nature, and oh, my darling, how he loves me! — almost the first thing I said was, ‘What about Elizabeth? You must not think that I have said yes to you until you assure me that you will be a father to Elizabeth.’ And he said — it was so like him— ‘We’ll offer her a grandfather, anyhow, Birdie.’ That was what he said he must call me — his bright-eyed little Birdie — so foolish of him.”
The clock on the chimney-piece chimed twelve, and Mrs. Fanshawe rose to an apex of surprising fatuity.
“Gracious me, what an hour!” she said. “I believe I have not sat up till twelve this last two months. We must go to bed, or Henry will find a dull-eyed little Birdie when he comes back in the morning, and will never love her any more. He will think he has made a great mistake, and want to marry Elizabeth instead. Dear Henry! I shall tease him about that but only just for a minute. I would not vex his big, loving heart for anything.”
She looked at Elizabeth with an expression that she was familiar with in her imaginary portraits of herself, an expression which she called wistful.
“Of course I shall not dream of marrying until a whole year has passed,” she said, “nor, I am sure, would my Henry wish me to. He knows what a tender heart I have for my beloved memories. But I think, dear, that I shall put the Memoir on one side, or perhaps give it to your Aunt Julia to deal with as she likes. I dare say she would be glad of something to do in her poor, empty life. I will take it down with me on Friday. Perhaps it has done its work.”
She did not explain exactly what this last sentence meant, and as there was no explanation whatever of it, except that it seemed to finish up with the Memoir in a vague and beautiful manner, it would have been idle to attempt any.
“So sleep well, my precious!” she said, kissing Elizabeth. “I think you will do that, won’t you, now that all our little anxieties are removed? He is really immensely well-off. What a responsibility that will be for me! I hope I shall prove not quite unworthy of it.”
Mrs. Hancock had never seen much of her sister-in-law, and perhaps she would not have been so kindly disposed towards the task of making herself better acquainted with her had she known that she had been pitied for her poor, empty life. For “poor, empty life” was indeed not a phrase that fitly described the passage of a pilgrim of Mr. Martin’s gospel through this pleasant world. But Mrs. Hancock had no idea that so slanderous a thing had been said of her, and she looked forward to her sister-in-law’s visit with considerable pleasure, which was enhanced by the prospect of having Elizabeth in the house again. She intended Elizabeth to be in the best of spirits, to play the piano to her very loudly and brightly (Mrs. Hancock knew she was just a little deaf and had seen four eminent specialists on the subject, who implored her, so she said, not to be in the least disquieted, but to eat rather less meat, as her very slight dullness of hearing was certainly gouty in origin), to drive with her on Saturday afternoon, and to sit constantly by her and admire her masterly methods with the “King of Mexico,” which had rendered thrilling so many after-dinner hours in Egypt. Then Mrs. Fanshawe should drive with her on Saturday morning, and they would have a great deal of beautiful talk about the Colonel. In her mind’s eye she saw her sister-in-law crying a little, and herself with touches and caresses administering the gospel of Mr. Martin, as through a fine hose, in
the most copious and refreshing abundance. When she was quite refreshed and had been made to see that death is the gate into life, no doubt she would read her part of the Memoir in which Mrs. Hancock took a great interest, seeing that she had supplied so much material for the chapter (or chapters, it was to be hoped) on his early life. She expected to enjoy the account of the early life very much, in the sort of way that a mellow sunset may be imagined to enjoy thinking over its own beautiful sunrise. And if she found Mrs. Fanshawe very sympathetic and understanding, she thought, she almost thought that she would confide in her something that she had never yet confided in anybody, and after making clear to her what her own intentions in the matter were, ask her advice, if it appeared probable that it would turn out consonant with what she herself had practically made up her mind to do.
These last six months had been crowded with incident; Mrs. Hancock did not think any year in all her tale of forty-eight summers had held so much, except perhaps the one year when she had married and Edith had been born. For now Edith had married, Mrs. Williams had had an operation for the removal of a small tumour, her brother had died, she had been to Egypt and had brought back scores and scores of photographs, which she pasted at intervals into large half-morocco scrap-books procured at staggering expense from the stores. She had forgotten what precisely a good many of them represented, but Edith, with her wonderful memory, usually knew, and if she did not, Mrs. Hancock, in her exquisitely neat hand, wrote under them some non-committing title such as “Temple in Upper Egypt,” or “Nile in January” (which it certainly was).
All this was sensational enough, and Mrs. Hancock, had she read about a year so full of incident in a novel, would have probably felt that fiction was stranger than truth, when she was asked to believe that so many things happened really “all together.” But with her another thing had happened fraught with more potential significance than them all. For the death of her brother, of whom she had seen so little for so many years, had not really strongly moved her; Mrs. Williams had quite recovered and cooked just as well as ever; Edith still constantly drove and lunched with her, and agitating though the pasting in of the photographs was (she had pasted one in upside down, and not noticed it till the next day when the paste was quite dry and “stuck”), she did not ever look at them again. But one event seemed likely to make a real difference to her life, for while they were at Luxor, Mrs. Martin had been suddenly taken ill with pneumonia and had died three days later. She had proved herself a charming travelling companion, and Mrs. Hancock had been very much shocked and grieved at so sad an incident marring their holiday. But she did not break down under the bereavement; she ordered a beautiful tombstone, though not expensive (since she knew that Mr. Martin was not very well off), and left Luxor as soon as possible, bringing back with her a large photograph of the grave. The widower, being what he was, behaved with the most characteristic fortitude and faith, and she felt that she had been permitted to be a wonderful help and consolation to him since her return. Desolate though he was, he had not let his work suffer. Indeed, he added to his ordinary duties the supervision of the choir-practices which his wife had always managed, and after a suitable interval played golf as regularly as ever. And only last Sunday he had preached the most wonderful sermon that Mrs. Hancock had ever heard on the text of “The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them.” Thankfulness and joy was the keynote of it, and everybody understood that the wilderness was Egypt. He showed how that in the midst of death we are in life, and that joy cometh in the morning. He had lunched with Mrs. Hancock afterwards, and she had settled that it must be printed with a purple (not black) line round the cover, and with “In Memoriam, January 4, 1913,” printed on the inner leaf. He did not go away till it was time for him to take the children’s service at four, but before that he had asked her if, when his broken heart was healed (it appeared to be making excellent progress), she would become in name as well as in fact the partner of his joys and sorrows. She rather thought she would, though there were a great many things to be considered first, and she promised him his answer in a week’s time. Mrs. Hancock had practically settled what that answer was to be, and at present she had told nobody, nor asked anybody’s advice about it. She had, indeed, thought of seeing how Edith received the idea, but on the other hand she felt that she would not give her the encouragement she wanted. Edith, indeed, had been altogether rather discouraging for months past, ever since the party met at Cairo, and did not give the lively interest in and applause of her mother’s plans which she would have liked. It was not that she seemed unhappy (if she had Mrs. Hancock would have applied the cheerful gospel to her), she simply appeared to be like a house shut up with blinds down and shutters closed. No face looked out from it; it was also impossible to penetrate into it. Perhaps, like a caretaker, Edward had the key, but Mrs. Hancock, as already noticed, did not like to pry into affairs that might possibly prove depressing, and she had not asked for it. Besides, it was difficult to imagine any cause of unhappiness that could be hers. Edward always came home by the train just before dinner; she expected a baby in July; and, after a tremendous struggle with herself, Mrs. Hancock had let her have her own peerless kitchenmaid as a cook.
But she felt that she would like to tell somebody who would probably agree with her what she contemplated, and she had great hope that her sister-in-law would prove sympathetic. It had been a prepossessing trait to find her buying soap in High Holborn, and she had received with touching gratitude all the stories about Mrs. Hancock which were to go into her husband’s Memoir.
But there had been a great deal to think about before she made up her mind. She had a real liking, a real admiration for her vicar, about which there was, in spite of her eight and forty years, something akin to romance. He was a very wonderful and encouraging person, and certainly she had needed encouragement in the lonely month after Edith’s marriage. Again, she felt sure that he would be devoted to her comfort, and though the ecstasy of youthful love might be denied them, she did not know that she was sorry for that. She was perhaps some five years older than he, but as youthful ardour was not part of her programme, that little discrepancy of years was but of small consequence. But there were other considerations; she could not possibly go to live at the vicarage, where the servants’ entrance was close under the dining-room windows, and there was no garage. She could not also be expected to help in parish work beyond the knitting of thick mufflers, which went to warm deep-sea fishermen. But his golf-playing presented no difficulties at all. She could start rather earlier, drive him to the club-house, and pick him up on her way home. To be sure that would somewhat restrict her drives, if she always had to start and come back by the same road. Perhaps it would be better if Denton took him there first, and she could call for him. Then what was to happen to the present furniture in the vicarage, for she did not want any more in her own house? She did not intend that such difficulties should be obstacles of magnitude, but her mind, which so long had been completely taken up in affairs of detail, the whole general course of it being already marked out, could not resist the contemplation of them. Here again a woman who went all the way to High Holborn for soap might prove both comprehending and enlightening.
Mrs. Fanshawe, who, with Elizabeth, was met on the platform by Denton and by the car outside the station, was an immediate success. After the crude sort of harbourage in Oakley Street, with its small rooms and its “dreadful backyard,” with its parlourmaid, who had a perennial cold and no notion of cleaning silver, this perfectly ordered house, with its smooth service and atmosphere of complete comfort, was as cream to a cat that had been living on the thinnest skim-milk. She admired, she appreciated with a childlike sort of pleasure; ate two buns with sugar on the top at tea, because they were so delicious (“Elizabeth, darling, you must eat one of these lovely buns!”) and made herself instantly popular. All the time, in the depth of her heart, she hugged the knowledge that she would so soon be in a position of extreme affluence, and a ladyship, a
nd pitied Mrs. Hancock for her poor, empty life. Simultaneously, Mrs. Hancock felt what a treat it must be for her sister-in-law to have a few days of comfort and luxury, instead of going all the way to High Holborn to get soap a little cheaper. Having seen her brother’s will in the paper, she knew exactly how much she and Elizabeth had to live upon at five per cent. of the capital, and, doubting whether they got more than four, was warmed with a sense of her own benevolence in saving them three days of household books at the cost of a third-class ticket (she felt sure they had gone third-class) to Heathmoor. It was dreadfully sad for the poor thing to be left a widow, and it was not to be expected that she would find a second husband very easily. But her cordial admiration of all she saw was certainly prepossessing; Mrs. Hancock felt that she would probably prove a worthy recipient of her secret, and give exactly the advice she wanted. More metaphysically each of them felt drawn to the other by the striking similarity between them in the point of their lack of sincerity, and the success they both achieved in deceiving themselves.
The three dined alone that night, and soon after her stepmother having discovered that her sweetest Elizabeth looked tired, the two elder ladies were left alone.
“And now, my dear,” said Mrs. Hancock (they had got to my-dearing each other before dinner was half over), “I so want to have a good talk to you. I want to know all your plans, and all about the Memoir, which I am sure will be most interesting. Shall I lay out a patience, while we talk? I can attend perfectly while I am playing one of the easier patiences. Elizabeth, too, it is such a joy to see Elizabeth again, after the sad, sad parting in the summer.”
