Haggard Anthology Vol 16, page 14
By instinct, as it were, she read what was passing in his mind. Although she might be shallow, Rose had all a woman's faculties and insight. With a quick little motion she pointed to the sofa beside her and, accepting the invitation, he sat down, but at a distance from her.
"I know that I have behaved badly to you," she went on in that soft voice which always thrilled his nerves like music, "but I am not—not a leper that you should avoid me. For whatever I have done, I have paid, and am paying. Perhaps you won't believe me, but I did not really understand what I was doing. Young girls don't always, you know. I was tempted and flattered and I did so long to be rich, who had been poor all my life."
"I suppose that if you had known that I had what are called prospects, it might have made a difference," he said bitterly.
"I dare say; at any rate it was foolish of you not to tell me, and as for the others who knew and held their tongues, I will never forgive them. I don't try to make out any case for myself, Andrew; I have none. I have been a wicked and foolish girl, and the worst of it is that I who thought that I should not mind, mind horribly. No, there is a worse behind the worst. I believed that you were only flirting with me, as you would with any pretty girl who came your way, that you would get over it in a month or so. But now it seems that you really cared and that I have done you a great injury—and oh! it breaks my heart."
"Then there are two broken hearts," replied Andrew in the same bitter voice, "for I shall never get over it—quite. You have not only robbed me of what I desired more than anything on the earth, you have destroyed my belief in woman. I do not suppose that I shall ever again quite believe in any woman. If you had fallen in love with another man, I should not have minded so much, I should have lost the race, that is all. But, as it is, according to your own story—well, things are very dreadful."
He paused, and she sat looking at him, twisting those beautiful hands of hers one over the other, until suddenly she caught sight of her wedding-ring and ceased, hiding it from view. Andrew too, saw that wedding-ring and it warned him, causing him to remember.
"However," he went on, "it is all done with now and you have your husband to think of, who is a very good fellow, a man I respect and do not wish to harm."
"My husband," she broke in. "Oh! yes, he is good, though sometimes I think otherwise. He is hard in his way, you know. He has cut himself off from me entirely. I don't mind that, indeed I am glad, but I have to bear his jokes, each of them with a sting in it—even his laughter has a sting. Then in a fashion he mocks me. He knows that I like fine dresses and jewels and there is scarcely a day passes but he brings me something fresh, not to give me pleasure, but to hurt me. I have more necklaces and bracelets and rings than I know what to do with—and I tell you, Andrew, I hate the sight of them. I would like to throw them out of the window. Only to-day, when he gave me the last thing, a ruby heart with a diamond arrow through it, he told me some dreadful story about a king called Croesus who loved gold and whose enemies when they caught him gave him gold to eat and drink. I know it was to torment me in some way, although I am not clever. I tell you, Andrew," she went on with gathering passion, "that I should value a broken sixpence that you had given me, more than all these jewels that are worth thousands."
"I brought you some presents from Egypt," said Andrew confusedly, for he felt his head swimming, "but I burned them that day after we met—with your letters and the lock of hair." Then he stopped, shuddering at the memory of that writhing hair of which the odour rose suddenly in his nostrils.
"You burned them all? Is there nothing left which I can keep in memory of you? What is that ring upon your finger? The blue thing, shaped like a beetle. Unless it was a present from some one else, will you not give it to me? Don't be afraid, I shouldn't wear it except perhaps when I am asleep and no one sees."
"It is a scarabæus," he said, "and it came off a mummy. I bought it in Egypt with a piece of a dead lady's finger in it. Well," he added grimly, "in a way I am a mummy too, so you may as well have it," and drawing it from his finger he threw it into her lap, whence it rolled on to the floor. Stopping, she picked it up humbly enough and hid it away somewhere in the bosom of her dress.
"Thank you," she said. "I cannot tell you how much I shall value something that reminds me of happier days. They are done with, you know," she added in another little outburst which he felt to be very genuine. "Oh! Andrew, Andrew, I am so wretched that sometimes I feel as though I should like to make away with myself. Indeed, I think I would if I wasn't afraid, not only of dying, but of all the dreadful things which they say may happen to one afterwards."
"Yes," interrupted Andrew hastily. "I have thought of that too, but it is almost as bad to murder oneself as to murder anyone else, and murder is a horrible crime."
"You! Why should you dream of such a thing? You are not—stained as I am. You are a man with rank and fortune, and all the world before you. There's hardly a woman in London who wouldn't give you her love if you asked her for it. Oh! whatever you may feel, remember that I suffer a hundred times more."
"Your bargain does not seem to have come off," remarked Andrew, speaking more to himself than to her.
Then Rose broke down, honestly enough, poor girl. She looked at him with her big pathetic eyes and by degrees he saw them fill with tears. They filled till they seemed like blue flowers brimming with dew, and at last began to overflow. It was too much for him. It would have been too much for any man so situated. His head went entirely. He lost himself in a mist of unreason, all he knew was that there before him sat the lovely woman whom he had loved and still loved, notwithstanding the woes she had brought upon his head. These he forgave since love forgives everything, and for the rest—there she sat!
There is a Paulian saying, not always confirmed by experience, to the effect that we are never tempted beyond our strength of resistance, though doubtless this is true when we are normal and have the opportunity of weighing matters. Probably, indeed, the axiom refers to such conditions and not to those which are abnormal, when the reason is in abeyance. Now, at the moment, Andrew's case fell within this second category; in short, he no more knew what he was doing than a madman does. So, very deliberately, he bent towards Rose and stretched out his arms with the object of embracing her, while for her part she sighed and sat quite still.
It was at this moment, most fortunately for both of them, that they heard voices in the passage, and into the room walked Dr. Watson and Arabella.
Even in his own confusion, with a kind of sixth sense Andrew noticed at once that the pair seemed rather disturbed, or at any rate elated. Obviously, too, they were thinking so much about something else, that it did not strike them as in the least odd that they should find him and Rose seated there upon the couch, if indeed either of them observed that they were so seated before he rose to greet them.
"How do you do, Brother Andrew, or Brother Atterton, I ought to say," said the doctor when he recognized him. "Come to tea, I suppose. How do you do, Rose, my dear? Looking prettier than ever, I see. Marriage has certainly agreed with her, hasn't it, Arabella?"
"I don't know," answered Arabella, as she shook hands with Rose rather stiffly, "but it hasn't agreed with my father. I think he looks ten years older."
"At all events," interrupted Andrew, nervously anxious to change the subject, "the doctor here looks ten years younger, and so do you—oh! I shouldn't say that to you. But what has happened to him?"
"I think I may as well tell you," replied Dr. Watson, looking shy as a schoolgirl. "It is a good opportunity, isn't it, Arabella?"
That classical-looking young woman turned her head away as though to avoid the sight of Rose who, forgetting her own griefs, sat mildly expectant on the sofa, as with a furtive hand she rubbed a tear-drop from the front of her dress.
"Well, my dear," went on the doctor effusively, as is the manner of nervous men who desire to get something off their minds, "you know since you determined to get married in that sudden fashion——" here he looked at Andrew and some idea seemed to strike him which caused his thoughts to wander for a moment. Recovering, he continued, "Since that event, which surprised me very much, naturally this house has been very lonesome. So—well, to cut it short, I have determined to follow your excellent example and been fortunate enough to find a lady who—shares my views on the subject," and with a quite youthful playfulness, he patted Arabella on the head, adding, "don't you, Arabella my love?"
"Yes, I suppose so," replied that lady frigidly, "but please be careful of my hair."
Then followed a silence, in the midst of which Rose uttered one of her long-drawn "oh's." As for Andrew, his nerves, already screwed almost to breaking-point, he now gave way entirely, with the result that he burst into a fit of unseemly giggling.
"What do you find so amusing, Lord Atterton?" asked Arabella, with cold yet rather anxious interest.
"Nothing, nothing," he said, trying to stifle his paroxysm, "but it is rather funny, isn't it? The doctor's daughter marries your father, and her father is going to marry his daughter—a kind of Cox and Box arrangement. Well, I am sure I hope you will all be very happy and Mrs. Black will have something to tell her husband when she gets home."
"Thank you," said Arabella, "but I think that I will inform my father myself of a matter that concerns me more than anyone else."
"Of course," ejaculated Andrew, "that's most natural. I wonder what he will say? Well, good-bye. I have an appointment with a lawyer—no, I mean I have to go down to the House of Lords to pay some fees. Good-bye, Brother Watson. Good-bye, Miss Black. Good-bye, Mrs. Black," and he was gone.
Next morning Andrew started suddenly for the North to visit his estates and stopped there for three months, fishing and making the acquaintance of the tenantry and neighbourhood.
XII. CLARA GOES ANGLING
When at length Andrew returned to town, just as everyone else was leaving it for the autumn holiday, he went to see Clara, whom he found still resident in Cavendish Square.
"Hullo! my dear," he said, "what are you doing here? The lawyers wrote to me that they had sold this family mausoleum, and extremely well, although they did not mention the figure."
"Yes, Andrew," replied Clara, who, he noted, was looking quite attractive, "I bought it for the sake of its associations."
"Did you! That's a queer taste of yours. Well, I imagine that you might have got it cheaper."
"Thank you, Andrew, but I paid what I thought the place worth to me, as I can well afford to do."
She did not add that she had given about four times its market value, being desirous of adding to Andrew's resources in a way which would not excite his suspicions. Here it may be said that this manoeuvre was quite successful, since he never took the trouble to inquire further about the matter. Nor need too much credit be given to Clara over this transaction. She was a keen business woman, but in a way she had a conscience. She knew that she had acquired at least nine-tenths of Andrew's inheritance and that nothing she could say or do would ever induce him to receive one farthing of it back again by way of charity, although she had pointed out, as did his lawyers, that he had good grounds for contesting his uncle's will at law.
She knew moreover that she had done this wittingly. Had she taken a different line with the late Lord Atterton when he was mad with grief over the loss of his son and blindly enraged with Andrew, this injustice might have been prevented, or at the least mitigated. But she had done nothing of the sort, although she was sure that this great fortune hung in the balance. Also she was aware that the issue lay between Andrew and herself, since her uncle had no other relations and was not a man who would wish to benefit charities.
Yet when he vilified Andrew, swearing that he would cut him off with a shilling, or rather without the shilling, with nothing but what he must have, she had merely put in a pro forma defence of her absent cousin, whom she knew to be totally innocent. In short, she had let judgment go by default and instead of sending for the doctor, which was what he needed, had allowed her uncle to visit the lawyer and change his will in her own favour, as she was certain that he would.
All of these things Clara, who had a singularly pellucid and judicial mind, saw clearly enough. To say that they troubled her conscience would be too much, for the reason that, to use an Americanism, she did not bank on conscience. Religion and its trimmings were to Clara matters for decent, outward observance, parts of the conventions that made up the modern code in certain sections of society, something to be put on with her Sunday clothes, and to be stretched or clipped in accordance with the company in which she found herself. She was a woman of her world and never did she pretend to be more or less. Even into this little act of reparation, which she carried through by giving much more than its value for the freehold of a London house, entered other motives. She did not wish Andrew to be an out-of-elbows peer. That would reflect on her as well as on him, especially as some one in the lawyer's office seemed to have been talking, or perhaps it may have been the doctor.
At any rate, the story of her uncle's dementia, for to this it amounted, in the course of which she supplanted his lawful heir, had become the subject of comment even in society papers of the lower class. She was quite willing to make over a large sum to her cousin, as indeed she had offered to do. But here his peculiarities barred the way for which she was sorry, especially as she would have been left with as much as she could spend, and the income from the spirit business was increasing every year. So she did what she could on the quiet, and purposed to do more by similar methods.
Also this cool and very level-headed young lady had other ends in view. Something in one of Andrew's careless notes had given her a clue which she had followed up with patience and industry. Thus she went to Justice Street, ostensibly to obtain his address which was not forthcoming at the House of Lords, and there fell into conversation with Mrs. Josky, from whom she extracted more than that good woman could have imagined. Further, she went to consult Dr. Black about some trifling ailment of her own, and with him she had more conversation. She was even so fortunate as to meet Mrs. Black and, taking an opportunity, suddenly to spring Andrew's name upon her as that of one whom she knew to be an old friend of her own, and watch the result.
A second visit to Mrs. Josky, this time about a lustre tea-pot she had seen in her little shop, filled in the details.
In short, she had the whole story at her finger-ends, and it came to this: That Andrew had been jilted by a pretty fool who did not in the least understand what she was doing, but who, happily for him, was now safely married and out of the way.
Clara was so pleased that in acknowledgment she would gladly have done Rose any good turn in her power, and did in fact take the trouble to introduce her to a most talented and exclusive dressmaker who only worked for a few very distinguished people at equally distinguished prices.
As may have guessed, it was Clara's intention to marry Andrew. That had always been her intention ever since she knew that Algernon could not live. Hitherto, however, there had been some obstacle in her path which, as she now discovered, was the well-favoured but second-rate young person called Rose, who through some curious folly had lost her chance. Now the coast was clear and all was plain sailing, since in such a matter Andrew himself scarcely counted. It was merely a question of how he was handled.
Still, Clara did make a few preparations. For instance, although they bored her extremely, she read certain works on Socialism; she even joined a famous society that advocated some form of this cult, and attended a few of the lectures, where she became acquainted with Dr. Watson and his wife Arabella. Also she worked up interest in medical science and research, on which she perused more text-books. Thus when Andrew finally reappeared from the North she was, as it were, triply armed for the forthcoming encounter.
After all, she reflected, one must marry some one, and he was infinitely the least disagreeable man she knew. Also undoubtedly he had great abilities, which, if well directed, might take him a long way, and with him herself.
Andrew stopped to lunch at Cavendish Square. Although there was no other guest it was a particularly charming lunch, simple, but exquisitely served and cooked. The wine, too, was of the very best, and Andrew, who had been living in an inn and was an abstemious person, drank several glasses. When the meal was finished they went to take coffee in a delightful room that Clara had furnished with great taste as her boudoir, since, having privately given orders that she was not at home, here she knew that they would not be disturbed.
"Andrew," she said presently, after a little pause in the conversation which she feared might herald his departure, "what makes you so sad? Is it the loss of our uncle's fortune, which, of course, you ought to have had?"
"Good gracious! no," he answered. "I have never thought twice about it, and why should I? I've got all I want, and a great deal more than I deserve."
"Still, you are sad and I wish you would tell me why. After all, you and I are cousins who have no other relatives, and we have always been friends and trusted each other. You see, I might be able to help you. Forgive me and don't answer unless you like, but is it anything about a woman?"
"Wouldn't you be sad, Clara, if you found your career suddenly brought to an end through no fault of your own, just because you had the misfortune to become a peer?"
"But why should it come to an end?" she inquired, opening her innocent blue eyes, "for I suppose you mean your doctoring? Why should you not go on working with Dr. Black, even though you have the misfortune to be a peer?" she added, with a faint tinge of sarcasm.
"With Black! It is impossible," he exclaimed, colouring.
