Chapter XVIII: An Autumn Holiday

I have large estates in Hertfordshire and the adjoining counties, free of land tax. Some noble marquis, I am assured, lays claim to the bare loam, the ploughed fields, the turnips; but who counts mere mud? The rest is mine, to do as I will with. He may keep his rents: ’tis for me to enjoy the green lawns, the huge buttressed beech-trees, the broad circles of shade where drowsy sheep lie huddled: I own the stripling streams that break against sharp stones in the sloping stickles, or expand on the shallows between into placid pools, skimmed over by water-beetles who dart and dance nimbly in interlacing whirligigs. The sky overhead is mine, mine the road under foot; the scent of rain-wetted earth; the broken song of the thrushes, the startled scream of the jay as he bursts through the rustling oak-leaves, the long sweep of the swift launching himself on the air from the battlements of the church-tower. All these I own, by virtue of my freehold in the saddle of my bicycle.

Such a Sabine farm costs nought to manage; it gives pure delight without counter-poise of trouble. I visited mine often, both on summer evenings and on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. Early in my time at Romeo’s a whimsical fancy seized me (being ever irresponsible) to spend my Sabbath mornings in such churches within easy reach of London as were dedicated to my chosen ally, St. Nicholas. I ran them down with care in an Anglican Directory. If the day were doubtful, I strayed no farther afield than to St. Nicholas Cole Abbey, in the City, where in a dark bay of the aisle I prayed the prayer now nearest to my heart, which I leave you to guess. Often as my patron had failed me at a pinch, still oftener had he proved kind; I was prepared to give him one more chance of distinguishing himself. But if the day promised to be fair, I got under weigh betimes, and was spinning down the roads that lead northward out of town while the smocked milkman still stood balanced by frothing pails in the meadows. London lay, a vast blur, behind me. Cows on the common chewed the cud of penury. Their eye was pensive. Commissioner Lin showed a nasty Jack-in-office disposition to disturb them. He was called to heel with difficulty. Then I would seek some country church, with low tower and wooden lych-gate, where St. Nicholas still bore sway, spite of iconoclast or Puritan, to pour out my heart’s wish to I know not what Power that compels the universe.

It was my wont to lean the bicycle meanwhile against the churchyard yew or some convenient tombstone, leaving the Commissioner in charge. He was well fitted for the task by his unregenerate monopolist views on private property, backed up by a fine row of persuasive white arguments.

These weekly trips made me careless of holiday. I waited to take my summer outing till it should suit Romeo’s convenience. I was so much his personal secretary that I must delay my vacation till he could take his; and it had long been arranged that he should put it off till late September—his partner having desired to go away in August.

Romeo never alluded again to that evening at the Savoy; but I knew it had brought him nought but disappointment. He had desired to include me within his mother’s sphere, and Cornelia, gathering up her Roman robe, had declined. Yet from that time he was more deferential and more courteous, if possible, than even his wont.

It was decided that his holiday should begin on the fifteenth of September. As the time drew near, Romeo grew visibly distressed and depressed. The spring failed in his step. I fancied he was suffering some internal conflict. His manner was distraught; he sat at times as if he hardly heard what was passing. It was plain to see he was struggling within himself; irreconcilable feelings drew him alternately in opposite directions.

On the fourteenth he came down to the office as usual, but sat gloomy and moody. He did not tell us whither he was bound: nay, more, he gave orders that no letters should follow him. He made some mystery of his destination. At three o’clock he went home, bidding me good-bye with more reserve than was his wont. He kept his glance averted. I could see he was fighting hard to avoid breaking down. This holiday must mean much to him. He could not look me in the face to bid me good-bye. The tremor of his eyelids was as of one who holds back tears with difficulty. I wished him a pleasant trip. He answered a hurried “Thank you,” and rushed out to his carriage.

If I had known where he was going I think I should have followed him.

As the thought passed through my mind, Puck came in for some money out of hand. It was my duty to keep the petty cash for Romeo’s personal office expenditure. “I want nine shillings, miss,” the boy said; “Baedeker’s ‘North Italy’ and Hare’s ‘Venice.’”

My heart gave a quick bound. I had surprised his objective. I am an erratic creature. In one second my mind was made up. I should follow him.

I had still the twelve guineas I had received for my story. Thank heaven, I am improvident. The _bourgeois_ vice of thrift is one from which my family has never suffered: the Puritan blood in our veins must have been too generously diluted. Besides, have I not learned from more modern political economy that saving is the source of all the evils of capitalism?—and do I not give thanks daily that I show not the faintest tendency to develop in that direction? I have made up my mind never to be a capitalist; and, up to date, I see every chance of my keeping my resolution. So I decided to spend my twelve guineas like a man, to please myself, leaving Providence or St. Nicholas to make good the deficiency. This is called faith, and is a cardinal virtue.

I gave Romeo two clear days’ start, lest I should travel along with him and seem to be dogging him; then I set out alone on my way to Venice.

I am nothing, if not frank. Therefore I do not seek to deny the truth that I went to Italy on purpose to follow Romeo.

“Unwomanly!” you say. What a false convention!

Yes, I am always frank; I think the day has almost come for frankness. Men novelists have depicted us as men wish us to be; we have meekly and obediently accepted their portrait: to some extent, even, we have striven, against the grain, to model ourselves upon it. A man’s ideal is the girl that shrinks; the sweetly unconscious girl, who scarce knows she loves, till his strong arm glides round her, and he clasps her to his heart: then, with a sudden awakening, she awakens to the truth, and knows she has loved him long, loved him from the beginning. That, I say, is a man’s woman. Her purity, her maidenly modesty, are quite unapproachable by concrete feminine humanity. She is too delicate in mind ever to dream that she can love spontaneously, of her own mere motion. She loiters in the shade; she waits to be wooed; she is coy, undecided, shrinking, timid.

There was a time, I suppose, when such women were common. I do not know—for have I not Shakespeare to the contrary? But the type was once true, I dare say, and widely distributed. Still, has not time altered it? In the world in which we live men are no longer ardent. We scarce affect to conceal the fact that they grow shy of marriage. As a necessary consequence, women have changed too; the woman of this age often knows she loves, knows it poignantly, breathlessly, and must use those weapons which the world allows her if she would gain the affection of the man who has taken her maiden fancy. She cannot by open means pursue him, I admit; but she has recourse to the immemorial feminine devices of ruse and stratagem.

I have Shakespeare on my side, I say, because I remember Rosalind. A man drew her; yet I see in her pure woman. She loves; she knows she loves; she longs frankly for her lover. And that is the way with women as I have found them.

Why did I follow Romeo? Why did Rosalind fly to the forest of Arden? Only once—scarcely once—had Romeo seen me as I was: that evening of the dinner. At the office, what was I but the type-writer girl? If I could meet him in Italy, he would know me as myself; we could talk more freely; he might pluck up heart of grace to break the ice, and tell me he loved me.

For I knew he was fond of me. I could not now doubt it. When he talked to me, it was with those unmistakable sidelong glances which a woman’s heart can interpret. Often he broke off suddenly. But his mother was against me; his mother wished him to marry Lady Donisthorpe’s dear Meta. In London, I knew, I had little chance to prevail over that perfect lady. But in Venice—ah, what miracles may not happen in Venice!

Mirage of the lagoons, you show men everything!

I had not set foot in the enchanted city since my father took me when I was a girl of sixteen; but I remembered it well; I knew every refluent ditch of it. I could have found my way, on foot, through little aimless lanes that wander in and out, from the Piazza to the Ghetto.

If Romeo met me there by accident—if we loitered together among those churches and galleries—if I told him of my saints, if I pointed him out my best-beloved pictures, surely the struggle within him would be settled in my favour. He would prefer my wayward Gypsy-American fantasy to dear Meta’s insipid graces of the perfect lady. He would know which he preferred, in spite of his mother and Lady Donisthorpe’s crude advertisements.

My one regret was, that I could not take Mr. Commissioner and Elsie with me.