Chapter VIII: Book I: Halfway House (6)

“Lord bless us, no!” cried Lady Barbara. “I don’t suppose she ever saw a cutlet, off a dish. A Bath bun and a cup of coffee is _her_ standard, you may be sure. Of course, she’ll be different in a year, you know. She’ll drop her people and all that.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Jess. “And get what you call ‘tact’——.”

“Oh, she’s dressed herself beautifully—or Ninon’s done it for her. She’ll pay for dressing. I call it a pretty figure. Charming. And she’s got fine eyes,” Lady Barbara replied. “That’s what did it, no doubt. Constantia tells me that Tristram Duplessis—.” Mr. Jess grew animated.

“A clever young fellow, Duplessis. I have had him under observation lately. My secretary is leaving me, and there has been talk—I hear, by the way, that the Cabinet is hopelessly divided: breaking up,—really, you know, on the rocks.”

“So poor Lord Quantock was telling me last night, with tears in his eyes. Then _you_ come in, it seems.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Jess soothingly, “we shall see what we shall see.”

“No doubt,” said Lady Barbara, bored with Mr. Jess.

The reception was rather ghastly. Lady Barbara supposed “we ought to mingle,” and gallantly tried it upon Mrs. Middleham, who had her daughter Mary’s fine eyes crystallized, as it were, in her head, stiffened into glass and intensely polished! Mr. Germain, seconding his friend’s effort while rigidly ignoring that an effort was to be made, performed the introduction—“Ah—do you know Lady Barbara Rewish? Mrs. Middleham,” and departed, not without hearing Mrs. Middleham say that she did _not_ know her ladyship.

“Such a pretty wedding,” said Lady Barbara; “she looked delicious.”

Mrs. Middleham, who was not without character, said that Mary was a very good girl. She had her “back up,” as her daughter Jinny said, and neither gave nor took any odds. Lady Barbara replied that we were _all_ good at that age—and then found herself stranded. To see Jinny with Mr. Gradeley, Q.C., had been a cure for the spleen. She ignored him, till he perspired in her service.

Mary was cutting the cake while Mr. Germain was engaged in the very unpleasant task of watching his sister-in-law “put things on a proper footing” before Mr. Middleham. He could tell by the quivering eyelids of the poor man that things were being put there with vigour. “No, madam, no,” Mr. Middleham was heard to say. “I don’t know that we could fairly expect more than that.”

“Nor do I,” said Mrs. James, with the air of one who adds, “I should think not.”

“Mr. Germain has been more than kind,” he ventured to proceed; “princely, indeed—and we should not presume——.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. James, and was echoed, somewhat to her discomfiture, by Mrs. Middleham, who had escaped from Lady Barbara by the simple means of walking away.

“I think that Mrs. Germain may take for granted that nobody from our house will intrude where he is not wanted,” said Mrs. Middleham with dignity. “Whenever Mary comes to see us she will be welcome. That she knows. We shall go where we are welcome—and nowhere else.”

“Then we quite understand each other, I see,” said Mrs. James.

“I hope we do,” said the other. “It shan’t be my fault if we do not.”

Mr. Germain was very uncomfortable, but there was now none too much time for the train, according to his calculations. While Mary was “changing her hat”—as it was put—the wedding party, rigidly segregated, stood astare, each at its window, upon the gusty vagaries of a late autumn day.

Mary was at the glass, flushed and on the edge of tears. Her hands were at her hat, while her eyes searched Jinny’s stony pair for a sign of melting. But Jinny was immovable. In vain did the pretty bride turn this way and that, invite criticism, invoke it: Jinny’s disapproval persisted. This was not to be borne—with a little whimper the victim turned, clasped Medusa round the waist; with one hand to her chin she coaxed for kindness. She stroked Jinny’s cheek, tiptoed for a kiss. Presently she fairly sobbed on Jinny’s bosom.

“Oh, you are unkind to me—you hurt me dreadfully! What have I done, that you won’t love me?”

“Done!” cried Jinny. “Hear her!” Then with blazing wrath she scorned her sister. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, my dear. You’ve married a gravestone. Sacred to the Memory of John Germain, Esquire—that’s what you’ve sold yourself to—take your joy of that. The price of a kissed hand! You’ll find out before morning, my beauty. If I marry a crossing-sweeper, he shall be a man.”

“You liked him, you know you liked him——.”

“Yes, for a grandfather, my dear; but for a husband, if you please, I’ll have a man. And so might you—over and over. You’ve been as good as promised half-a-dozen times——.”

“Jinny, you know that’s not true.” She was ruthlessly put away to arm’s length.

“But it _is_ true. There was Rudd—what do you say of him?”

Rudd must be owned to. So far off he showed so dim a speck in the distance, there seemed nothing in it.

“Young Stainer—you forget him, too, I suppose——.”

“Stainer?” said poor Mary. “He was a boy, Jinny.”

“He had a pair of arms, I believe. And I should like to hear your opinion of Fred Wimple. You were never at Folkestone in your life, I suppose? You never talked to Sandgate by moonlight? Never met any one in your life by moonlight?”

The remembrance of a meeting by moonlight, more recent than any at Folkestone, enabled Mary to consider Mr. Wimple’s case.

“I don’t think you need drag up flirtations against me. You’re not very generous, Jinny. Of course I flirted.”

“Did you flirt with Mr. Ambrose Perivale? Was that what made him follow you home across England? Did you flirt with Mr. Dup—.” But now Mary clung to her.

“Stop, Jinny, oh, stop! If I’ve been wicked I must pay for it—it’s always the girl that pays. But I have never been wicked—you know it, oh, you must know it of your sister. I’ve told him everything, Jinny—all that he would hear. But he’s too good to believe anything against me; he’ll protect me, he’ll never let me come to any harm. Oh, Jinny, Jinny, don’t be cruel to me any more! If ever a girl meant to do her duty in life I mean it now. Dearest, you must help me—I’m afraid of him, you know.”

Jinny folded her arms tightly over her chest. “Yes, I can believe it—and you may be afraid of your husband before long—for the same reason. You go out of your own walk—and you get lost. Your Tristram Duplessis, who looks at a girl as if he wanted to eat her! You can’t be expected to understand such ways. And it’s my belief that your John Germain, Esquire, is no better—except for one thing, that he hasn’t any teeth. If you ask me, I would rather be eaten any day by Mr. Duplessis. He’d make a cleaner job of it.”

Mary was not crying. On the contrary, her eyes were hard. She was pale and serious.

“I know that I’ve done a thing which you don’t approve. You think that I’m going to leave you all for good. I hope that I shall show you soon that you are wrong. Do me justice, Jinny. You have never seen me try to get out of my station. I shall do whatever Mr.—, my husband, wishes, of course—but I will never turn my back on my people. Nor would he ask it of me—be sure of that. I can’t say any more—except that you have hurt me by what you have said—and that five minutes after I’ve gone away, you’ll be sorry.” Then she choked down something, and Jinny was sorry.

“Molly, I’ve been a brute——”

“No, no.”

“But I have. I’m proud of you, really—you looked quite a beauty in your French clothes——”

“Jinny! Beside you I’m a little brown mouse.”

“You’re not, my dear. You’re as sharp as any needle. You’ll be one of them in a month, and they’ll be the first to own it. I could see that old Lady Rewish look you over—and nod her wicked old head. _She_ knows, bless you! Little Moll, forgive your tiresome sister—kiss me now——”

“Darling Jinny, darling Jinny——”

They clung, wept, and kissed; and presently a radiant bride went down to meet her lord.

Good-byes were said in haste. Jinny promised there should be no rice. A momentary flush of cordiality warmed the unhappy guests. Lady Barbara kissed the bride on both cheeks; Jinny hovered about her, eager now to show her contrition. Wonder of all, Mr. Germain, saluted her fair cheek. Jinny was seen to blush. Riceless, slipperless they went their way—and the party dissolved like smoke.

It was afterwards agreed at Blackheath that Mr. Germain and the Rector were gentlemen.

XVII
THE WEDDING NIGHT

Torquay was the place for the honeymoon; but Exeter was to be the end of that day’s stage. Mr. Germain’s valet put them into the train, handed his master the tickets, Mary her jewelcase, took off his hat and retired to an adjoining compartment. Everything was very easy, done with an absence of enthusiasm which might have chilled a more resolute heart than this bride’s. It was done, she reflected, as if a wedding was a matter of every day. Why, a budget of evening papers, _Punch_, _Truth_, and other things had been laid in order upon the opposite seat. Was he going to read all these? It was almost incredible—but after the events of the afternoon she could have believed anything. She felt her ring to make sure, and then her eye caught sight of the paper on the window—Reserved to Exeter—J. Germain, Esquire. Perhaps great people always reserved carriages when they travelled—perhaps a carriage would always be reserved for her when she went about alone. There would have been a maid if she had chosen; it had been proposed to her. She had laughed and said, “Of course not!” But he had taken his man-servant—and how could he? On his wedding journey! Had he taken him before—? This was his second wedding, she remembered.

Anxiety as to whether the train could be caught might account for the bridegroom’s silence during the carriage journey. His watch was open in his hand. For some time, too, after the train moved, he kept silence. She found herself looking soberly at the little pointed toe of her shoe when her thoughts were broken in upon by the capture of her hand. The sudden attack made her heart beat; she blushed hotly, lost her command of experience. As if it had been the first advance he had ever made, she dared not raise her eyes. She must be wooed from the beginning if she was to be won.

This was the way to charm him; he was charmed. He called her his Mary, and asked, of what she was thinking? She didn’t know, couldn’t say. Was she thinking of their coming life together? No, not then. “I think constantly of that,” he told her and put his arm about her. She let him draw her closer as he developed his plans for their joint happiness. “Calm spaces for work together, my love—there is so much in which your help will be a pride to me—and something I do believe, in which I can be useful to you. We must keep up our languages—French, Italian, even Spanish (quite worth your while for Cervantes’ sake): I do think I can help you there. Then your music—I could not bear you to abandon that. I have a little surprise for you when I bring you to Southover—you shall see. Then riding. I think you don’t ride? You shall be under Musters’s care. Musters is an admirable fellow—you will like him. We ride together daily, I hope. Will you like that?”

“Yes, yes, I shall like everything. It will all be very wonderful to me—all quite new.”

He smiled, as if tolerant of a simplicity which could find daily horse-exercise wonderful—and she felt it. In her present state of acute sensibility she needed anything but this treatment. He should have taken her as an adorable dunce and laughed at her outright between his kisses, or he should have whirled her off her balance in the torrent of his ecstasy. But Mr. Germain never laughed—it was not a Germain’s habit—and ecstasy at four in the afternoon was not possible to him. He liked his cup of tea at a quarter past, and when that hour came proposed to Mary that she should give it him from her tea basket—Lady Barbara’s present.

She was thankful for the relief, and almost herself again in the bustle of preparation; she forgot her dumps, and when he burnt his fingers and said “Tut-tut!” she fairly laughed at him and took, and even returned, his kisses. Things were better; but he very nearly imperilled the position thus hardly won, by wiping his mouth with a silk pocket handkerchief. True, she had been eating bread and butter—but was this a time—?

They chatted after tea—first of Berkshire where her home was to be. He spoke of his “riverine property.” She could almost see the edge of his estate as they slipped away from the ragged fringe of Reading. Then, by natural stages, he was led to reflect upon the society she would meet about Southover. The Chaveneys—he thought she would like the Chaveneys; they were her nearest neighbours, five miles off. Sir George was asthmatic—a sufferer; but Lady Chaveney was a charming woman, a woman of the world. She had been a Scrope of Harfleet. The girls were quite pleasant young women; and there was a son—rather wild—an anxiety occasionally. Then there were—but her eyes were wide. Five miles off! Were those the nearest people? She had thought there was a town—was not Farlingbridge the post town? He considered Farlingbridge. Yes, Farlingbridge was a mile and a half from the Park gates—a market town of 2,000 souls. There was a Vicar, a worthy man, of the name of Burgess. He met Burgess, of course—on the Board of Guardians, for instance. There was a Colonel Dermott, too; yes, he had forgotten Dermott. Nobody else. Her “Oh, I see,” was his reproof; he was ashamed of himself. “Two thousand other people, of course! Everybody will be delighted to see you, my dearest. Don’t misunderstand me. They won’t call, probably—Foolish old customs die hard with us. But there won’t be a door in Farlingbridge which won’t be open to you. I shall go with you, if you will allow me. I have long wished to know more of my neighbours—but you know how sadly I have lived.” He drew her closely to him—“How I have lived so long without my Mary passes my comprehension! Do you remember that last July was not the first time I saw you?”

She was pleased, and showed that she was. She questioned him shyly. Had he seen her before this year? What had he thought? What made him notice her this time? His answers were in the right vein. He was allowed to be the lover—and so the moments passed, and Swindon with them. The train swung slowly by a crowded platform. He released her.

Silence succeeding, she relapsed at once into her desponding mood. She was embarked indeed—but on what a cruise! The Chaveneys—five miles away—Sir George and Lady Chaveney—She knew what that meant; how the County reckoned, from one great house to another. Why, if a Colonel Dermott, a Reverend Burgess were as nothing—from what a depth of blackness had _she_ been dragged up! . . . A toy, an old man’s plaything, Jinny had called her . . . picked out of a village and put in a great house . . . five miles from anybody. . . .

During this time of long silence, of reverie, in the which, though his arm embraced her and his hand was against her side, his eyes were placidly shut, while hers gazed out of window, fixed and sombre, at the flying country, she suddenly started and became alert. Misgivings faded, a wash of warm colour—as of setting suns—stole comfortably about her. For a moment, it may be, she was conscious again of wide horizons. The train was rolling smoothly—so smoothly that its swiftness had to be felt for—over an open common backed by a green down. Furze-bushes dotted it, clumps of bramble; there was a pond, a dusty road, geese on the pond, a cottage by the road, with a woman taking linen from the hedge. Along the road, pushing to the West, went a cart, drawn by a white horse; the driver sat on the tilt, smoking, his elbows on his knees; a grey dog ran diligently beside. Could this be—? Could it be other? Oh, the great, free life! Oh, the beating heart! Oh, the long, long look! Mary strained against the arm of her husband; his hand felt her heart beat. He opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled to see her eager gazing. But what mystery of change in women! The next moment she had turned to him, her eyes filled with wet. She turned, she looked wistfully upon him; her lip quivered. “My darling?”—and then she flung herself upon his breast. “Oh, take me, take me, keep me safe!” she cried. “I will be good to you, I will, I will! But you must love me always——”

“My sweet wife, can you doubt it? What has frightened my pet?” She hid her face on his shoulder. “Nothing—nothing—only thoughts. I’m not good, you know. I told you so—often.”

He pressed her closely to him. “Who is good? Who dares to ask for love? We ask for mercy—not love. But we can always give it. It is our blessed privilege. You have the whole of mine.” He kissed her hair—all that he could reach of her, and she lay with hidden face for a long time. The unknown resumed its chilly grip—the horizon narrowed again, the fog hung about the hedgerows which hemmed it in. But the outlook was not quite the same—or the out-looker was changed. The tilt-cart was journeying to the West, and so was the train. . . . But Mr. Germain exulted in every mile which he could watch out with that dear head upon his shoulder. The tired child slept!

“Exeter, my love!” he awoke her with a kiss; she blushed, looked dazed, and snuggled to him in an adorable way. But for that unlucky servant of his it is possible that the day might have been saved yet. But inexorable order resumed its hold, and she chilled fatally between station and hotel. A carriage and pair was waiting for them, a cockaded coachman touched his hat; the porters touched theirs; the luggage followed with Villiers; up the stairs of the hotel there was quite a stately procession. . . . They were shown their rooms; sitting-room, dining-room, two bed-rooms, all _en suite_. Mr. Germain disappeared with anxious Villiers; a gigantic chambermaid, old, stately, with a bosom fit for triplets, superintended the unpacking of Madam’s trunk, which was plundered by two smart underlings with velvet bows very far back upon their sleek heads. Would Madam require a dresser? Madam said, Oh, no, thank you—and then had to ring in confusion for somebody to fasten her bodice. Madam looked charming, when all was done, in a gown of dangerous simplicity, and Madam knew it—but there beat a wild little heart under the tulle, and a cry had to be stifled, a cry to a friend on the open road—for good fellowship, sage counsel, and trust to float between eyes and eyes. Her treadings had well-nigh slipped; she felt herself to be drowning—as it were, in three feet of water.

She sat at his table, and ravished his delicate fancies with her pretty embarrassments, her assumed dignity, her guarded eyes and lips. King Cophetua lived again in this honest man, who had no need to protest to Heaven that he would cherish his elected bride. He was now perfectly happy, wallowing in sentiment, bathing every sense. The exquisite antithesis he had made! From nothing she was become this! Sweet before, and now all dainty sweet; rare unknown, now known to be the rarest. Her white neck with a jewel upon it, her scented hair with a star, rings glittering on her fingers, her gown as dainty as her untried soul—and through the clouded windows of her eyes that shrinking soul looking out—wistful, appealing, crying for help. Ah, what loyal help should be hers! Complacent, benevolent gentleman.

She sipped his champagne, she watched everything, missed nothing, gave no chances, knew herself on her trial. She was strung up to the last pitch, and staked all her future upon the hazard of this night. If she was cold in her responses, slow to take up, quick to abandon positions in the talk, she may be excused. She could be bright enough when she was at ease—but who is at ease with his honour at proof? Great honour had been done her, she knew; and it required all her honour in return. That prompted her to a curious requital. She burned to cry out to this courteous gentleman in black and fair white, and to these noiseless, prompt attendants—“Look at me well—I am nothing, a shred from the wilderness. He has chosen me for his breast, decked me out—I am a slave-girl—my ignorance is hired. How dare you wait upon me, you who would pass me in the street, and nudge, and tell each other with a wink what I was, and how you found my looks? Was I so low that I must be thus lower? Can you not spare me this?” She burned with shame, was dangerously near to panic. More than once she must bite her lip to hold back these words—and as she bit, he looked at her and adored her splendid colour and lovely frugality of glance and speech. . . . She left him to his port, and sat alone in the drawing-room, a prey to all the misgivings.

When he took her in his arms and struggled with himself to tell her all he had found in her of excellence and beauty, she could only hide her face. But she clung to him at last, sobbing out her protest that she would serve him utterly. “Oh, you are good to me, you are good! Oh, help me to be what you wish. I am so ignorant—I cannot tell you—” She broke off here, and, holding herself stiffly in his arms, looked strangely in his face. “Do you know—have you thought—that—that—I cannot be what you think me?” she said; and when she saw that he was taken aback, “Listen,” she said, “let me sit by you.” He took her on his knee and held her swinging hand. Her eyes were veiled as she tried to speak to him. “I have been—I began to work, you know, when I was sixteen. I went away from home——”

She caught him unawares, or she hit by some fatal telepathy the centre of his thought. He flinched at the blow, but she could not know that, being too full of her own affair. She must discharge her heart at all costs—and at this eleventh hour, if so must be. Now let him be generous if he is to be accounted wise!

Once too often he was tried. This time, at the crisis, he did not respond. Generosity, which is Love’s flag of victory, was not at command. The hand that shaded his eyes made a deeper shadow. His voice was small and still. “Yes, my dear, yes?”

She lifted her head and looked up, not at him, but over the room. She went on as if she was reading her story off the wall. But she was reading it from Jinny’s eyes of scorn.

“You must know me as I really am before you—before to-morrow. I was engaged—once—before I knew you. He was a farmer’s son—Mr. Rudd. He thought—I thought—he gave me a ring. That was soon after I had gone to Misperton. I was twenty-two.”

He sat very still, hiding his face. It looked as if he were crouching from a storm. “Yes, yes, my child. Why not?” She was pitiless.

“Oh, but— . . . I have more to tell you.”

He seemed to shrivel. “You wish to speak of these things? You were very young.” And yet his voice said, Tell me all—all.

“At sixteen? Yes. Of course I was very foolish.”

“There had been—Before you went to Mr. Nunn’s—before you went to Misperton?”

She left his knee, and sat opposite to him upon a straight chair. She folded her hands in her lap and began her tale. As if she had been in the dock she rehearsed her poor tale. He neither stirred nor spoke.

She made no excuses, did not justify herself, nor accuse herself. She did not say—it never entered her head to say—You, too, have made mistakes. There was a Lady Diana for your bitterness. But she knew what she was doing only too well; and a force within her said, “Go on—spare nothing—go on. Whatever it cost you, be done with it. No peace for you else.” . . . “I must tell you that there was a gentleman—you will not ask me his name. I think that you know it. He gave me a book—and—other things. I have not seen him since—since you spoke to me at the school-feast.”

He stirred, but did not look up. “I will ask you not to see him.”

“I will never see him. I have refused——”

“He has tried to see you?”

“I took care that he should not.”

“I don’t wish to seem unreasonable,” he said slowly; “I cannot bear to seem so to you. But—it would be for our happiness.”

“I assure you that I have no intention. I hope you will believe me.” His lips moved, but he did not look up. She rose. “I am very tired,” she said; “I think I will go now.” He got up immediately; the fog seemed in the room. She came and stood before him.

“Be patient with me,” she said. “Be kind to me. I shall try to do everything you wish.”

He made as if he would take her, but she drew back quickly.

“I should have told you all this before if I could have thought you would care—would allow it. Indeed, I have tried more than once, but you—Now, I am glad that you know me—but I am very tired.”

“Mary,” he said, and held out his hands to her. She looked into his face, then shut her eyes.

“I am very tired. Please let me go. Good-night.”

He held open the door for her.