Gertrude Marvell was sitting alone at the Maumsey breakfast-table, in the pale light of a December day. All around her were letters and newspapers, to which she was giving an attention entirely denied to her meal. She opened them one after another, with a frown or a look of satisfaction, classifying them in heaps as she read, and occasionally remembering her coffee or her toast. The parlourmaid waited on her, but knew very well—and resented the knowledge—that Miss Marvell was scarcely aware of her existence, or her presence in the room.
But presently the lady at the table asked—
"Is Miss Blanchflower getting up?"
"She will be down directly, Miss."
Gertrude's eyebrows rose, unconsciously. She herself was never late for an 8:30 breakfast, and never went to bed till long after midnight. The ways of Delia, who varied between too little sleep and the long nights of fatigue, seemed to her self-indulgent.
After her letters had been put aside and the ordinary newspapers, she took up a new number of theTocsin. The first page was entirely given up to an article headed "How LONG?" She read it with care, her delicate mouth tightening a little. She herself had suggested the lines of it a few days before, to the Editor, and her hints had been partially carried out. It gave a scathing account of Sir Wilfrid's course on the suffrage question—of his earlier coquettings with the woman's cause, his defection and "treachery," the bitter and ingenious hostility with which he was now pursuing the Bill before the House of Commons. "An amiable, white-haired nonentity for the rest of the world—who only mention him to marvel that such a man was ever admitted to an English Cabinet—to us he is the 'smiler with the knife,' the assassin of the hopes of women, the reptile in the path. The Bill is weakening every day in the House, and on the night of the second reading it will receive its 'coup de grace' from the hand of Sir Wilfrid Lang. Women of England—how long!—"
Gertrude pushed the newspaper aside in discontent. Her critical sense was beginning to weary of the shrieking note. And the descent from the "assassin of the hopes of women" to "the reptile in the path" struck her as a silly bathos.
Suddenly, a reverie—a waking dream—fell upon her, a visionary succession of sights and sounds. A dying sunset—and a rising wind, sighing through dense trees—old walls—the light from a kitchen window—voices in the distance—the barking of a dog….
"Oh Gertrude!—how late I am!"
Delia entered hurriedly, with an anxious air.
"I should have been down long ago, but Weston had one of her attacks, and I have been looking after her."
Weston was Delia's maid who had been her constant companion for ten years. She was a delicate nervous woman, liable to occasional onsets of mysterious pain, which terrified both herself and her mistress, and had hitherto puzzled the doctor.
Gertrude received the news with a passing concern.
"Better send for France, if you are worried. But I expect it will be soon over."
"I don't know. It seems worse than usual. The man in Paris threatened an operation. And here we are—going up to London in a fortnight!"
"Well, you need only send her to the Brownmouth hospital, or leave her here with France and a good nurse."
"She has the most absurd terror of hospitals, and I certainly couldn't leave her," said Delia, with a furrowed brow.
"You certainly couldn't stay behind!" Gertrude looked up pleasantly.
"Of course I want to come—" said Delia slowly.
"Why, darling, how could we do without you? You don't know how you're wanted. Whenever I go up town, it's the same—'When's she coming?' Of course they understood you must be here for a while—but the heart of things, the things that concernus—is London."
"What did you hear yesterday?" asked Delia, helping herself to some very cold coffee. Nothing was ever kept warm for her, the owner of the house; everything was always kept warm for Gertrude. Yet the fact arose from no Sybaritic tendency whatever on Gertrude's part. Food, clothing, sleep—no religious ascetic could have been more sparing than she, in her demands upon them. She took them as they came—well or ill supplied; too pre-occupied to be either grateful or discontented. And what she neglected for herself, she equally neglected for other people.
"What did I hear?" repeated Gertrude. "Well, of course, everything is rushing on. There is to be a raid on Parliament as soon as the session begins—and a deputation to Downing Street. A number of new plans, and devices are being discussed. And there seemed to me to be more volunteers than ever for 'special service'?"
She looked up quietly and her eyes met Delia's;—in hers a steely ardour, in Delia's a certain trouble.
"Well, we want some cheering up," said the girl, rather wearily. "Those two last meetings were—pretty depressing!—and so were the bye-elections."
She was thinking of the two open-air meetings at Brownmouth and Frimpton. There had been no violence offered to the speakers, as in the Latchford case; the police had seen to that. Her guardian had made no appearance at either, satisfied, no doubt, after enquiry, that she was not likely to come to harm. But the evidence of public disapproval could scarcely have been more chilling—more complete. Both her speaking, and that of Gertrude and Paul Lathrop, seemed to her to have dropped dead in exhausted air. An audience of boys and girls—an accompaniment of faint jeers, testifying rather to boredom than hostility—a sense of blank waste and futility when all was over:—her recollection had little else to shew.
Gertrude interrupted her thought.
"My dear Delia!—what you want is to get out of this backwater, and back into the main stream! Even I get stale here. But in those great London meetings—there one catches on again!—one realises again—what it allmeans! Why not come up with me next week, even if the flat's not ready? I can't have you running down like this! Let's hurry up and get to London."
The speaker had risen, and standing behind Delia, she laid her hand on the waves of the girl's beautiful hair. Delia looked up.
"Very well. Yes, I'll come. I've been getting depressed. I'll come—at least if Weston's all right."
* * * * *
"I'm afraid, Miss Blanchflower, this is a very serious business!"
Dr. France was the speaker. He stood with his back to the fire, and his hands behind him, surveying Delia with a look of absent thoughtfulness; the look of a man of science on the track of a problem.
Delia's aspect was one of pale consternation. She had just heard that the only hope of the woman, now wrestling upstairs with agonies of pain, lay in a critical and dangerous operation, for which at least a fortnight's preliminary treatment would be necessary. A nurse was to be sent for at once, and the only question to be decided was where and by whom the thing was to be done.
"Wecanmove her," said France, meditatively; "though I'd rather not.And of course a hospital is the best place."
"She won't go! Her mother died in a hospital, and Weston thinks she was neglected."
"Absurd! I assure you," said France warmly. "Nobody is neglected in hospitals."
"But one can't persuade her—and if she's forced against her will, it'll give her no chance!" said Delia in distress. "No, it must be here. You say we can get a good man from Brownmouth?"
They discussed the possibilities of an operation at Maumsey.
Insensibly the doctor's tone during the conversation grew more friendly, as it proceeded. A convinced opponent of "feminism" in all its forms, he had thought of Delia hitherto as merely a wrong-headed, foolish girl, and could hardly bring himself to be civil at all to her chaperon, who in his eyes belonged to a criminal society, and was almost certainly at that very moment engaged in criminal practices. But Delia, absorbed in the distresses of someone she cared for, all heart and eager sympathy, her loveliness lending that charm to all she said and looked which plainer women must so frequently do without was a very mollifying and ingratiating spectacle. France began to think her—misled and unbalanced of course—but sound at bottom. He ended by promising to make all arrangements himself, and to go in that very afternoon to see the great man at Brownmouth.
When Delia returned to her maid's room, the morphia which had been administered was beginning to take effect, and Weston, an elderly woman with a patient, pleasing face, lay comparatively at rest, her tremulous look expressing at once the keenness of the suffering past, and the bliss of respite. Delia bent over her, dim-eyed.
"Dear Weston—we've arranged it all—it's going to be done here. You'll be at home—and I shall look after you."
Weston put out a clammy hand and faintly pressed Delia's warm fingers—
"But you were going to London, Miss. I don't want to put you out so."
"I shan't go till you're out of the wood, so go to sleep—and don't worry."
* * * * *
"Delia!—for Heaven's sake be reasonable. Leave Weston to France, and a couple of good nurses. She'll be perfectly looked after. You'll put out all out plans—you'll risk everything!"
Gertrude Marvell had risen from her seat in front of a crowded desk. The secretary who generally worked with her in the old gun room, now become a militant office, had disappeared in obedience to a signal from her chief. Anger and annoyance were plainly visible on Gertrude's small chiselled features.
Delia shook her head.
"I can't!" she said. "I've promised. Weston has pulledmethrough two bad illnesses—once when I had pneumonia in Paris—and once after a fall out riding. I daresay I shouldn't be here at all, but for her. If she's going to have a fight for her life—and Doctor France doesn't promise she'll get through—I shall stand by her."
Gertrude grew a little sallower than usual as her black eyes fastened themselves on the girl before her who had hitherto seemed so ductile in her hands. It was not so much the incident itself that alarmed her as a certain new tone in Delia's voice.
"I thought we had agreed—that nothing—nothing—was to come before the Cause!" she said quietly, but insistently.
Delia's laugh was embarrassed.
"I never promised to desert Weston, Gertrude. I couldn't—any more thanI could desert you."
"We shall want every hand—every ounce of help that can be got—through January and February. You undertook to do some office work, to help in the organisation of the processions to Parliament, to speak at a number of meetings—"
Delia interrupted.
"As soon as Weston is out of danger, I'll go—of course I'll go!—about a month from now, perhaps less. You will have the flat, Gertrude, all the same, and as much money as I can scrape together—after the operation's paid for. I don't matter a tenth part as much as you, you know I don't; I haven't been at all a success at these meetings lately!"
There was a certain young bitterness in the tone.
"Well, of course you know what people will say."
"That I'm shirking—giving in? Well, you can contradict it."
Delia turned from the window beside which she was standing to look at Gertrude. A pale December sunshine shone on the girl's half-seen face, and on the lines of her black dress. A threatening sense of change, mingled with a masterful desire to break down the resistance offered, awoke in Gertrude. But she restrained the dictatorial instinct. Instead, she sat down beside the desk again, and covered her face with her hand.
"If I couldn't contradict it—if I couldn't be sure of you—I might as well kill myself," she said with sudden and volcanic passion, though in a voice scarcely raised above its ordinary note.
Delia came to her impulsively, knelt down and put her arms round her.
"You know you can be sure of me!" she said, reproachfully.
Gertrude held her away from her. Her eyes examined the lovely face so close to her.
"On the contrary! You are being influenced against me."
Delia laughed.
"By whom, please?"
"By the man who has you in his power—under our abominable laws."
"By my guardian?—by Mark Winnington? Really! Gertrude! Considering that I had a fresh quarrel with him only last week—on your account—at Monk Lawrence—"
Gertrude released herself by a sudden movement.
"When were you at Monk Lawrence?"
"Why, that afternoon, when you were in town. I missed my train at Latchford, and took a motor home." There was some consciousness in the girl's look and tone which did not escape her companion. She was evidently aware that her silence on the incident might appear strange to Gertrude. However, she frankly described her adventure, Daunt's surliness, and Winnington's appearance.
"He arrived in the nick of time, and made Daunt let me in. Then, while we were going round, he began to talk about your speech, and wanted to make me say I was sorry for it. And I wouldn't! And then—well, he thought very poorly of me—and we parted—coolly. We've scarcely met since. And that's all."
"What speech?" Gertrude was sitting erect now with queerly bright eyes.
"The speech about Sir Wilfrid—at Latchford."
"What else does he expect?"
"I don't know. But—well, I may as well say, Gertrude—to you, though I wouldn't say it to him—that I—I didn't much admire that speech either!"
Delia was now sitting on the floor with her hands round her knees, looking up. The slight stiffening of her face shewed that it had been an effort to say what she had said.
"Soyouthink that Lang ought to be approached with 'bated breath and whispering humbleness'—just as he is on the point of trampling us and our cause into the dirt?"
"No—certainly not! But why hasn't he as good a right to his opinion as we to ours—without being threatened with personal violence?"
Gertrude drew a long breath of amazement.
"I don't quite see, Delia, why you ever joined the 'Daughters'—or why you stay with them."
"That's not fair!"—protested Delia, the colour flooding in her cheeks. "As for burning stupid villas—that are empty and insured—or boathouses—or piers—or tea-pavilions, to keep the country in mind of us,—that's one thing. But threateningpersonswith violence—that's—somehow—another thing. And as to villas and piers even—to be quite honest—I sometimes wonder, Gertrude!—I declare, I'm beginning to wonder! And why shouldn't one take up one's policy from time to time and look at it, all round, with a free mind? We haven't been doing particularly well lately."
Gertrude laughed—a dry, embittered sound—as she pushed theTocsinfrom her.
"Oh well, of course, if you're going to desert us in the worst of the fight, and to follow your guardian's lead—"
"But I'm not!" cried Delia, springing to her feet. "Try me. Haven't I promised—a hundred things? Didn't I say all you expected me to say at Latchford? And, on the whole"—her voice dragged a little—"the empty houses and the cricket pavilions—still seem to me fair game. It's only—as to the good it does. Of course—if it were Monk Lawrence—"
"Well—if it were Monk Lawrence?"
"I should think that a crime! I told you so before."
"Why?"
Delia looked at her friend with a contracted brow.
"Because—it's a national possession! Lang's only the temporary owner—the trustee. We've no right to destroy what belongs toEngland."
Gertrude laughed again—as she rose from the tea-table.
"Well, as long as women are slaves, I don't see what England matters to them. However, don't trouble yourself. Monk Lawrence is all right. And Mr. Winnington's a charmer—we all know that."
Delia flushed angrily. But Gertrude, having gathered up her papers, quietly departed, leaving her final shaft to work.
Delia went back to her own sitting-room, but was too excited, too tremulous indeed, to settle to her letters. She had never yet found herself in direct collision with Gertrude, impetuous as her own temper was. Their friendship had now lasted nearly three years. She looked back to their West Indian acquaintance, that first year of adoration, of long-continued emotion,—mind and heart growing and blossoming together. Gertrude, during that year, had not only aroused her pupil's intelligence; she had taught a motherless girl what the love of women may be for each other. To make Gertrude happy, to be approved by her, to watch her, to sit at her feet—the girl of nineteen had asked nothing more. Gertrude's accomplishments, her coolness, her self-reliance, the delicate precision of her small features and frame, the grace of her quiet movements, her cold sincerity, the unyielding scorns, the passionate loves and hates that were gradually to be discovered below the even dryness of her manner,—by these Delia had been captured; by these indeed, she was still held. Gertrude was to her everything that she herself was not. And when her father had insisted on separating her from her friend, her wild resentment, and her girlish longing for the forbidden had only increased Gertrude's charm tenfold.
The eighteen months of their separation, too, had coincided with the rise of that violent episode in the feminist movement which was represented by the founding and organisation of the "Daughters" society. Gertrude though not one of the first contrivers and instigators of it, had been among the earliest of its converts. Its initial successes had been the subject of all her letters to Delia; Delia had walked on air to read them. At last the world was moving, was rushing—and it seemed that Gertrude was in the van. Women were at last coming to their own; forcing men to acknowledge them as equals and comrades; and able to win victory, not by the old whining and wheedling, but by their own strength. The intoxication of it filled the girl's days and nights. She thought endlessly of processions and raids, of street-preaching, or Hyde Park meetings. Gertrude went to prison for a few days as the result of a raid on Downing Street. Delia, in one dull hotel after another, wearily following her father from "cure" to "cure," dreamed hungrily and enviously of Gertrude's more heroic fate. Everything in those days was haloed for her—the Movement, its first violent acts, what Gertrude did, and what Gertrude thought—she saw it all transfigured and aflame.
And now, since her father's death, they had been four months together—she and her friend—in the closest intimacy, sharing—or so Delia supposed—every thought and every prospect. Delia for the greater part of that timehadbeen all glad submission and unquestioning response. It was quite natural—absolutely right—that Gertrude should command her house, her money, her daily life. She only waited for Gertrude's orders; it would be her pride to carry them out. Until—
What had happened? The girl, standing motionless beside her window, confessed to herself, as she had not been willing to confess to Gertrude, that somethinghadhappened—some change of climate and temperature in her own life.
In the first place, the Movement was not prospering. Why deny it? Who could deny it? Its first successes were long past; its uses as advertisement were exhausted; the old violences and audacities, as they were repeated, fell dead. The cause of Woman Suffrage had certainly not advanced. Check after check had been inflicted on it. The number of its supporters in the House of Commons had gone down and down. By-elections were only adding constantly to the number of its opponents.
"Well, what then?"—said the stalwarts of the party—"More outrages, more arson, more violence! Wemustwin at last!" And, meanwhile, blowing through England like a steadily increasing gale, could be felt the force of public anger, public condemnation.
Delia since her return to England had felt the chill of it, for the first time, on her own nerves and conscience. For the first time she had winced—morally—even while she mocked at her own shrinking.
Was that Gertrude pacing outside? The day was dark and stormy. But Gertrude, who rarely took a walk for pleasure, scarcely ever missed the exercise which was necessary to keep her in health. Her slight figure, wrapped in a fur cape, paced a sheltered walk. Her shoulders were bent, her eyes on the ground. Suddenly it struck Delia that she had begun to stoop, that she looked older and thinner than usual.
"She is killing herself!"—thought the girl in a sudden anguish—"killing herself with work and anxiety. And yet she always says she is so strong. What can I do? There is nobody that matters to her—nobody!—but me!"
And she recalled all she knew—it was very little—of Gertrude's personal history. She had been unhappy at home. Her mother, a widow, had never been able to get on with her elder daughter, while petting and spoiling her only son and her younger girl, who was ten years Gertrude's junior. Gertrude had been left a small sum of money by a woman friend, and had spent it in going to a west-country university and taking honours in history. She never spoke now of either her mother or her sister. Her sister was married, but Gertrude held no communication with her or her children. Delia had always felt it impossible to ask questions about her, and believed, with a thrilled sense of mystery, that some tragic incident or experience had separated the two sisters. Her brother also, it seemed, was as dead to her. But on all such personal matters Gertrude's silence was insuperable, and Delia knew no more of them than on the first day of their meeting.
Indomitable figure! Worn with effort and struggle—worn above all withhating. Delia looked at it with a sob in her throat. Surely, surely, the great passion, the great uplifting faith they had felt in common, was vital, was true! Only, somehow, after the large dreams and hopes of the early days, to come down to this perpetual campaign of petty law-breaking, and futile outrage, to these odious meetings and shrieking newspapers, was to be—well, discouraged!—heart-wearied.
"Only, she is not wearied, or discouraged!" thought Delia, despairingly. "And why am I?"
Was it hatefully true—after all—that she was being influenced—drawn away?
The girl flushed, breathing quick. She must master herself!—get rid of this foolish obsession of Winnington's presence and voice—of a pair of grave, kind eyes—a look now perplexed, now sternly bright—a personality, limited no doubt, not very accessible to what Gertrude called "ideas," not quick to catch the last new thing, but honest, noble, tender, through and through.
Absurd! She was holding her own with him; she would hold her own. That very day she must grapple with him afresh. She had sent him a note that morning, and he had replied in a message that he would ride over to luncheon.
For the question of money was urgent. Delia was already overdrawn. Yet supplies were wanted for the newly rented flat, for Weston's operation, for Gertrude's expenses in London—for a hundred things.
She paced up and down, imagining the conversation, framing eloquent defences for her conduct, and again, from time to time, meanly, shamefacedly reminding herself of Winnington's benefit under the will. If she was a nuisance, she was at least a fairly profitable nuisance.
* * * * *
Winnington duly arrived at luncheon. The two ladies appeared to him as usual—Gertrude Marvell, self-possessed and quietly gay, ready to handle politics or books, on so light a note, that Winnington's acute recollection of her, as the haranguing fury on the Latchford waggon, began to seem absurd even to himself. Delia also, lovely, restless, with bursts of talk, and more significant bursts of silence, produced on him her normal effect—as of a creature made for all delightful uses, and somehow jangled and out of tune.
After luncheon, she led the way to her own sitting-room. "I am afraid I must talk business," she said abruptly as she closed the door and stood confronting him. "I am overdrawn, Mr. Winnington, and I must have some more money."
Winnington laid down his cigarette, and looked at her in open-mouthed amazement.
"Overdrawn!—but—we agreed—"
"I know. You gave me what you thought was ample. Well, I have spent it, and there is nothing left to pay house bills, or servants with, or—or anything."
Her pale defiance gave him at once a hint of the truth.
"I fear I must ask what it has been spent on," he said, after a pause.
"Certainly. I gave £500 of it in one cheque to Miss Marvell. Of course you will guess how it has been spent."
Winnington took up his cigarette again, and smoked it thoughtfully. His colour was, perhaps, a little higher than usual.
"I am sorry you have done that. It makes it rather awkward both for you and for me. Perhaps I had better explain. The lawyers have been settling the debts on your father's estate. That took a considerable sum. A mortgage has been paid off, according to directions in Sir Robert's will. And some of the death duties have been paid. For the moment there is no money at all in the Trust account. I hope to have replenished it by the New Year, when I understood you would want fresh funds."
He sat on the arm of a chair and looked at her quietly.
Delia made no attempt at explanation or argument. After a short silence, she said—
"What will you do?"
"I must, of course, lend you some of my own."
Delia flushed violently.
"That is surely absurd, Mr. Winnington! My father left a large sum!"
"As his trustee I can only repeat that until some further securities are realised—which may take a little time—I have no money. Butyoumust have money—servants and tradesmen can't go unpaid. I will give you, therefore, a cheque on my own bank—to replace that £500."
He drew his cheque book from his breast pocket. Delia was stormily walking up and down. It struck him sharply, first that she was wholly taken by surprise; and next that shock and emotion play finely with such a face as hers. He had never seen her so splendid. His own pulses ran.
"This—this is not at all what I want, Mr. Winnington! I want my own money—my father's money! Why should I distress and inconvenience you?"
"I have tried to explain."
"Then let the lawyers find it somehow. Aren't they there to do such things?"
"I assure you this is simplest. I happen"—he smiled—"to have enough in the bank. Alice and I can manage quite well till January!"
The mention of Mrs. Matheson was quite intolerable in Delia's ears. She turned upon him—
"I can't accept it! You oughtn't to ask it."
"I think you must accept it," he said with decision. "But the important question with me is—the further question—am I not really bound to restore this money to your father's estate?"
Delia stared at him bewildered.
"Whatdoyou mean!"
"Your father made me his trustee in order that I might protect his money—from uses of which he disapproved—and protect you, if I could, from actions and companions he dreaded. This £500 has gone—where he expressly wished it not to go. It seems to me that I am liable, and that I ought to repay."
Delia gasped.
"I never heard anything so absurd!"
"I will consider it," he said gravely. "It is a case of conscience. Meanwhile"—he began to write the cheque—"here is the money. Only, let me warn you, dear Miss Delia,—if this were repeated, I might find myself embarrassed. I am not a rich man!"
Silence. He finished writing the cheque, and handed it to her. Delia pushed it away, and it dropped on the table between them.
"It is simply tyranny—monstrous tyranny—that I should be coerced like this!" she said, choking. "You must feel it so yourself! Put yourself in my place, Mr. Winnington."
"I think—I am first bound—to try and put myself in your father's place," he said, with vivacity. "Where has that money gone, Miss Delia?"
He rose, and in his turn began to pace the little room. "It has been proved, in evidence, that a great deal of this outrage ispaidoutrage—that it could not be carried on without money—however madly and fanatically devoted, however personally disinterested the organisers of it may be—such as Miss Marvell. You have, therefore, taken your father's money to provide for this payment—payment for all that his soul most abhorred. His will was his last painful effort to prevent this being done. And yet—you have done it!"
He looked at her steadily.
"One may seem to do evil"—she panted—"but we have a faith, a cause, which justifies it!"
He shook his head sadly,
Delia sat very still, tormented by a score of harassing thoughts. If she could not provide money for the "Daughters" what particular use could she be to Gertrude, or Gertrude's Committee? She could speak, and walk in processions, and break up meetings. But so could hundreds of others. It was her fortune—she knew it—that had made her so important in Gertrude's eyes. It had always been assumed between them that a little daring and a little adroitness would break through the meshes of her father's will. And how difficult it was turning out to be!
At that moment, an idea occurred to her. Her face, responsive as a wave to the wind, relaxed. Its sullenness disappeared in sudden brightness—in something like triumph. She raised her eyes. Their tremulous, half whimsical look set Winnington wondering what she could be going to say next.
"You seem to have beaten me," she said, with a little nod—"or you think you have."
"I have no thoughts that you mightn't know," was the quiet reply.
"You want me to promise not to do it again?"
"If you mean to keep it."
As he stood by the fire, looking down upon her rather sternly—she yet perceived in his grey eyes, something of that expression she had seen there at their first meeting—as though the heart of a good man tried to speak to her. The same expression—and yet different; with something added and interfused, which moved her strangely.
"Odd as it may seem, I will keep it!" she said. "Yet without giving up any earlier purpose, or promise, whatever." Each word was emphasized.
His face changed.
"I won't worryyouin any such way again," she added hastily and proudly.
Some other words were on her lips, but she checked them. She held out her hand for the cheque, and the smile with which she accepted it, after her preceding passion, puzzled him.
She locked up the cheque in a drawer of her writing-table. Winnington's horse passed the window, and he rose to go. She accompanied him to the hall door and waved a light farewell. Winnington's response was ceremonious. A sure instinct told him to shew no further softness. His dilemma was getting worse and worse, and Lady Tonbridge had been no use to him whatever.
One of the first days of the New year rose clear and frosty. When the young housemaid who had temporarily replaced Weston as Delia's maid drew back her curtains at half-past seven, Delia caught a vision of an opaline sky with a sinking moon and fading stars. A strewing of snow lay on the ground, and the bare black trees rose, vividly separate, on the white stretches of grass. Her window looked to the north along the bases of the low range of hills which shut in the valley and the village. A patch of paler colour on the purple slope of the hills marked the long front of Monk Lawrence.
As she sleepily roused herself, she saw her bed littered with dark objects—two leather boxes of some size, and a number of miscellaneous cases—and when the maid had left the room, she lay still, looking at them. They were the signs and symbols of an enquiry she had lately been conducting into her possessions, which seemed to her to have yielded very satisfactory results. They represented in the main the contents of a certain cupboard in the wall of her bedroom where Lady Blanchflower had always kept her jewels, and where, in consequence, Weston had so far locked away all that Delia possessed. Here were all her own girlish ornaments—costly things which her father had given her at intervals during the three or four years since her coming out; here were her Mother's jewels, which Sir Robert had sent to his bankers after his wife's death, and had never seen again during his lifetime; and here were also a number of family jewels which had belonged to Delia's grandmother, and had remained, after Lady Blanchflower's death, in the custody of the family lawyers, till Delia, to whom they had been left by will, had appeared to claim them.
Delia had always known that she possessed a quantity of valuable things, and had hitherto felt but small interest in them. Gertrude's influence, and her own idealism had bred in her contempt for gauds. It was the worst of breeding to wear anything for its mere money value; and nothing whatever should be worn that wasn't in itself beautiful. Lady Blanchflower's taste had been, in Delia's eyes, abominable; and her diamonds,—tiaras, pendants and the rest—had absolutely nothing to recommend them but their sheer brute cost. After a few glances at them, the girl had shut them up and forgotten them.
But theywerediamonds, and they must be worth some thousands.
It was this idea which had flashed upon her during her last talk with Winnington, and she had been brooding over it, and pondering it ever since. Winnington himself was away. He and his sister had been spending Christmas with some cousins in the midlands. Meanwhile Delia recognised that his relation to her had been somewhat strained. His letters to her on various points of business had been more formal than usual; and though he had sent her a pocket Keats for a Christmas present, it had arrived accompanied merely by his "kind regards" and she had felt unreasonably aggrieved, and much inclined to send it back. His cheque meanwhile for £500 had gone into Delia's bank. No help for it—considering all the Christmas bills which had been pouring in! But she panted for the time when she could return it.
As for his threat of permanently refunding the money out of his own pocket, she remembered it with soreness of spirit. Too bad!
Well, there they lay, on the counterpane all round her—the means of checkmating her guardian. For while she was rummaging in the wall-safe, the night before, suddenly the fire had gone down, and the room had sunk to freezing point. Delia, brought up in warm climates, had jumped shivering into bed, and there, heaped round with the contents of the cupboard, had examined a few more cases, till sleep and cold overpowered her.
In the grey morning light she opened some of the cases again. Vulgar and ugly, if you like—but undeniably, absurdly worth money! Her dark eyes caught the sparkle of the jewels running through her fingers. These tasteless things—mercifully—were her own—her very own. Winnington had nothing to say to them! She could wear them—or give them—or sell them, as she pleased.
She was alternately exultant, and strangely full of a fluttering anxiety. The thought of returning Winnington's cheque was sweet to her. But her disputes with him had begun to cost her more than she had ever imagined they could or would. And the particular way out, which, a few weeks before, she had so impatiently desired—that he should resign the guardianship, and leave her to battle with the Court of Chancery as best she could—was no longer so attractive to her. To be cherished and cared for by Mark Winnington—no woman yet, but had found it delightful. Insensibly Delia had grown accustomed to it—to his comings and goings, his business-ways, abrupt sometimes, even peremptory, but informed always by a kindness, a selflessness that amazed her. Everyone wanted his help or advice, and he must refuse now—as he had never refused before—because his time and thoughts were so much taken up with his ward's affairs. Delia knew that she was envied; and knew also that the neighbours thought her an ungrateful, unmanageable hoyden, totally unworthy of such devotion.
She sat up in bed, dreaming, her hands round her knees. No, she didn't want Winnington to give her up! Especially since she had found this easy way out. Why should there be any more friction between them at all? All thathegave her henceforward should be religiously spent on the normal and necessary things. She would keep accounts if he liked, like any good little girl, and shew them up. Let him do with the trust fund exactly what he pleased. For a long time at any rate, she could be independent of it. Why had she never thought of such a device before?
But how to realise the jewels? In all business affairs, Delia was the merest child. She had been brought up in the midst of large expenditure, of which she had been quite unconscious. All preoccupation with money had seemed to her mean and pettifogging. Have it!—and spend it on what you want. But wants must be governed by ideas—by ethical standards. To waste money on personal luxury, on eating, drinking, clothes, or any form of mere display, in such a world as Gertrude Marvell had unveiled to her, seemed to Delia contemptible and idiotic. One must havesomenice clothes—some beauty in one's surroundings—and the means of living as one wished to live. Otherwise, to fume and fret about money, to be coveting instead of giving, buying and bargaining, instead of thinking—or debating—was degrading. She loathed shopping. It was the drug which put women's minds to sleep.
Who would help her? She pondered. She would tell no one till it was done; not even Gertrude, whose cold, changed manner to her hurt the girl's proud sense to think of.
"I must do it properly—I won't be cheated!"
The London lawyers? No. The local solicitor, Mr. Masham? No! Her vanity was far too keenly conscious of their real opinion of her, through all their politeness.
Lady Tonbridge? No! She was Mark Winnington's intimate friend—and a constitutional Suffragist. At the notion of consulting her,—on the means of providing funds for "militancy"—Delia sprang out of bed, and went to her dressing, dissolved in laughter.
And presently—sobered again, and soft-eyed—she was stealing along the passage to Weston's door for a word with the trained nurse who was now in charge. Just a week now—to the critical day.
* * * * *
"Is Miss Marvell, in? Ask if she will see Mr. Lathrop for a few minutes?"
Paul Lathrop, left to himself, looked round Delia's drawing-room. It set his teeth on edge. What pictures—what furniture! A certain mellowness born of sheer time, no doubt—but with all its ugly ingredients still repulsively visible. Why didn't the heiress burn everything and begin again? Was all her money to be spent on burning other people's property, when her own was so desperately in need of the purging process—or on dreary meetings and unreadable newspapers? Lathrop was already tired of these delights; his essentially Hedonist temper was re-asserting itself. The "movement" had excited and interested him for a time; had provided besides easy devices for annoying stupid people. He had been eager to speak and write for it, had persuaded himself that he really cared.
But now candour—and he was generally candid with himself—made him confess that but for Delia Blanchflower he would already have cut his connection with the whole thing. He thought with a mixture of irony and discomfort of his "high-falutin" letter to her.
"And here I am—hanging round her"—he said to himself, as he strolled about the room, peering through his eye-glass at its common vases, and trivial knick-knacks—"just because Blaydes bothers me. I might as well cry for the moon. But she's worth watching, by Jove. One gets copy out of her, if nothing else! I vow I can't understand why my dithyrambs move her so little—she's dithyrambic enough herself!"
The door opened. He quickly pulled himself together. Gertrude Marvell came in, and as she gave him an absent greeting, he was vaguely struck by some change in her aspect, as Delia had long been. She had always seemed to him a cold half-human being, in all ordinary matters. But now she was paler, thinner, more remote than ever. "Nerves strained—probably sleepless—" he said to himself. "It's the pace they will live at—it kills them all."
This kind of comment ran at the back of his brain, while he plunged into the "business"—which was his pretence for calling. Gertrude, as a District Organizer of the League of Revolt, had intrusted him with the running of various meetings in small places, along the coast, for which it humiliated him to remember that he had agreed to be paid. For at his very first call upon them, Miss Marvell had divined his impecunious state, and pounced upon him as an agent,—unknown, he thought, to Miss Blanchflower. He came now to report what had been done, and to ask if the meetings should be continued.
Gertrude Marvell shook her head.
"I have had some letters about your meetings. I doubt whether they have been worth while."
Miss Marvell's manner was that of an employer to an employee. Lathrop's vanity winced.
"May I know what was wrong with them?"
Gertrude Marvell considered. Her gesture, unconsciously judicial, annoyed Lathrop still further.
"Too much argument, I hear,—and too little feeling. Our people wanted more about the women in prison. And it was thought that you apologised too much for the outrages."
The last word emerged quite simply, as the only fitting one.
Lathrop laughed,—rather angrily.
"You must be aware, Miss Marvell, that the public thinks they want defence."
"Not from us!" she said, with energy. "No one speaking for us must ever apologise for militant acts. It takes all the heart out of our people. Justify them—glory in them—as much as you like."
There was a pause.
"Then you have no more work for me?" said Lathrop at last.
"We need not, I think, trouble you again. Your cheque will of course be sent from head-quarters."
"That doesn't matter," said Lathrop, hastily.
The reflection crossed his mind that there is an insolence of women far more odious than the insolence of men.
"After all they are our inferiors! It doesn't do to let them command us," he thought, furiously.
He rose to take his leave.
"You are going up to London?"
"I am going. Miss Blanchflower stays behind, because her maid is ill."
He stood hesitating. Gertrude lifted her eyebrows as though he puzzled her. She never had liked him, and by now all her instincts were hostile to him. His clumsy figure, and slovenly dress offended her, and the touch of something grandiose in his heavy brow, and reddish-gold hair, seemed to her merely theatrical. Her information was that he had been no use as a campaigner. Why on earth did he keep her waiting?
"I suppose you have heard some of the talk going about?" he said at last, shooting out the words.
"What talk?"
"They're very anxious about Monk Lawrence—after your speech. And there are absurd stories. Women have been seen—at night—and so on."
Gertrude laughed.
"The more panic the better—for us."
"Yes—so long as it stops there. But if anything happened to that place, the whole neighbourhood would turn detective—myself included."
He looked at her steadily. She leant one thin hand on a table behind her.
"No one of course would have a better chance than you. You are so near."
Their eyes crossed. "By George!" he thought—"you're in it. I believe to God you're in it."
And at that moment he felt that he hated the willowy, intangible creature who had just treated him with contempt.
But as they coldly touched hands, the door opened again, and Delia appeared.
"Oh I didn't mean to interrupt—" she said, retreating.
"Come in, come in!" said Gertrude. "We have finished our business—and Mr. Lathrop I am sure will excuse me—I must get some letters off by post—"
And with the curtest of bows she disappeared.
"I have brought you a book, Miss Blanchflower," Lathrop nervously began, diving into a large and sagging pocket. "You said you wanted to see Madame de Noailles' second volume."
He brought out "Les Éblouissements," and laid it on the table beside her. Delia thanked him, and then, all in a moment, as she stood beside him, a thought struck her. She turned her great eyes full upon him, and he saw the colour rushing into her cheeks.
"Mr. Lathrop!"
"Yes."
"Mr. Lathrop—I—I dreadfully want some practical advice. And I don't know whom to ask."
The soreness of his wounded self-love vanished in a moment.
"What can I do for you?" he asked eagerly. And at once his own personality seemed to expand, to throw off the shadow of something ignoble it had worn in Gertrude's presence. For Delia, looking at him, was attracted by him. The shabby clothes made no impression upon her, but the blue eyes did. And the childishness which still survived in her, beneath all her intellectualisms, came impulsively to the surface.
"Mr. Lathrop, do you—do you know anything about jewelry?"
"Jewelry? Nothing!—except that I have dabbled in pretty things of that sort as I have dabbled in most things. I once did some designing for a man who set up—in Bond Street—to imitate Lalique. Why do you ask? I suppose you have heaps of jewels?"
"Too many. I want to sell some jewels."
"Sell?—But—" he looked at her in astonishment.
She reddened still more deeply; but spoke with a frank charm.
"You thought I was rich? Well, of course I ought to be. My father was rich. But at present I have nothing of my own—nothing! It is all in trust—and I can't get at it. But Imusthave some money! Wait here a moment!"
She ran out of the room. When she came back she was carrying a miscellaneous armful of jewellers' cases. She threw them down on the sofa.
"They are all hideous—but I am sure they're worth a great deal of money."
And she opened them with hasty fingers before his astonished eyes. In his restless existence he had accumulated various odd veins of knowledge, and he knew something of the jewelry trade of London. He had not only drawn designs, he had speculated—unluckily—in "De Beers." For a short time Diamonds had been an obsession with him, then Burmah rubies. He had made money out of neither; it was not in his horoscope to make money out of anything. However there was the result—a certain amount of desultory information.
He took up one piece after another, presently drawing a magnifying glass out of his pocket to examine them the better.
"Well, if you want money—" he said at last, putting down arivièrewhich had belonged to Delia's mother—"That alone will give you some thousands!"
Delia's eyes danced with satisfaction—then darkened.
"That was Mamma's. Papa bought it at Constantinople—from an old Turkish Governor—who had robbed a province—spent the loot in Paris on his wives—and then had to disgorge half his fortune—to the Sultan—who got wind of it. Papa bought it at a great bargain, and was awfully proud of it. But after Mamma died, he sent it to the Bank, and never thought of it again. I couldn't wear it, of course—I was too young."
"How much money do you want?"
"Oh, a few thousands," said Delia, vaguely. "Five hundred pounds, first of all."
"And who will sell them for you?"
She frowned in perplexity.
"I—I don't know."
"You don't wish to ask Mr. Winnington?"
"Certainly not! They have nothing to do with him. They are my own personal property," she added proudly.
"Still he might object—Ought you not to ask him?"
"I shall not tell him!" She straightened her shoulders. "He has far too much bother on my account already."
"Of course, if I could do anything for you—I should be delighted. But I don't know why you should trust me. You don't know anything about me!" He laughed uncomfortably.
Delia laughed too—in some confusion. It seemed to him she suddenly realised she had done something unusual.
"It is very kind of you to suggest it—" she said, hesitating.
"Not at all. It would amuse me. I have some threads I can pick up still—in Bond Street. Let me advise you to concentrate on thatrivière. If you really feel inclined to trust me, I will take it to a man I know; he will show it to—" he named a famous firm. "In a few days—well, give me a week—and I undertake to bring you proposals. If you accept them, I will collect the money for you at once—or I will return you the necklace, if you don't."
Delia clasped her hands.
"A week! You think it might all be finished in a week?"
"Certainly—thereabouts. These things—" he touched the diamonds—"are practically money."
Delia sat ruminating, with a bright excited face. Then a serious expression returned. She looked up.
"Mr. Lathrop, this ought to be a matter of business between us—if you do me so great a service?"
"You mean I ought to take a commission?" he said, calmly. "I shall do nothing of the kind."
"It is more than I ought to accept!" she cried. "Let your kindness—include what I wish."
He shook his fair hair impatiently.
"Why should you take away all my pleasure in the little adventure?"
She looked embarrassed. He went on—
"Besides we are comrades—we have stood together in the fight. I expect this is for the Cause! If so I ought to be angry that you even suggested it!"
"Don't be angry!" she said gravely. "I meant nothing unkind. Well, I thank you very much—and there are the diamonds."
She gave him the case, with a quiet deliberate movement, as if to emphasize her trust in him. The simplicity with which it was done pricked him uncomfortably. "I'm no thief!—" he thought angrily. "She's safe enough with me. All the same, if she knew—she wouldn't speak to me—she wouldn't admit me into her house. She doesn't know—and I am a cad!"
"You can't the least understand what it means to be allowed to do you a service!" he said, with emotion.
But the tone evidently displeased her. She once more formally thanked him; then sprang up and began to put the cases on the sofa together. As she did so, steps on the gravel outside were heard through the low casement window. Delia turned with a start, and saw Mark Winnington approaching the front door.
"Don't say anythingplease!" she said urgently. "This has nothing to do with my guardian."
And opening the door of a lacquer cabinet, she hurriedly packed the jewelry inside with all the speed she could. Her flushed cheek shewed her humiliated by the action.
* * * * *
Winnington stood in the doorway, silent and waiting. After a hasty greeting to the new-comer, Delia was nervously bidding Lathrop good-bye.
"In a week!" he said, under his breath, as she gave him her hand.
"A week!" she repeated, evidently impatient for him to be gone. He exchanged a curt bow with Winnington, and the door closed on him.
There was a short silence. Winnington remained standing, hat in hand. He was in riding dress—a commanding figure, his lean face reddened, and the waves of his grizzled hair slightly loosened, by a buffeting wind. Delia, stealing a glance at him, divined a coming remonstrance, and awaited it with a strange mixture of fear and pleasure. They had not met for ten days; and she stammered out some New Year's wishes. She hoped that he and Mrs. Matheson had enjoyed their visit.
But without any reply to her politeness, he said abruptly—
"Were you arranging some business with Mr. Lathrop?"
She supposed he was thinking of the militant Campaign.
"Yes," she said, eagerly. "Yes, I was arranging some business."
Winnington's eyes examined her.
"Miss Delia, what do you know about that man?—except that story—which I understand Miss Marvell told you."
"Nothing—nothing at all! Except—except that he speaks at our meetings, and generally gets us into hot water. He has a lot of interesting books—and drawings—in his cottage; and he has lent me Madame de Noailles' poems. Won't you sit down? I hope you and Mrs. Matheson have had a good time? We have been to church—at least I have—and given away lots of coals and plum-puddings—at least I have. Gertrude thought me a fool. We have had the choir up to sing carols in the servants' hall, and given them a sovereign—at least I did. And I don't want any more Christmas—for a long, long, time!"
And with that, she dropped into a chair opposite Winnington, who sat now twirling his hat and studying the ground.
"I agree with you," he said drily when she paused. "I felt when I was away that I had better be here. And I feel it now doubly."
"Because?"
"Because—if my absence has led to your developing any further acquaintance with the gentleman who has just left the room, when I might have prevented it, I regret it deeply."
Delia's cheeks had gone crimson again.
"You knew perfectly well Mr. Winnington, that we had made acquaintance with Mr. Lathrop! We never concealed it!"
"I knew, of course, that you were both members of the League, and that you had spoken at meetings together. I regretted it—exceedingly—and I asked you—in vain—to put an end to it. But when I find him paying a morning call here—and lending you books—that is a very different matter!"
Delia broke out—
"You really aretooEarly-Victorian, Mr. Winnington!—and I can't help being rude. Do you suppose you can ever turn me into a bread-and-butter miss? I have looked after myself for years—you don't understand!" She faced him indignantly.
Winnington laughed.
"All right—so long as the Early Victorians may have their say. And my say about Mr. Lathrop is—again that he is not a fit companion for you, or any young girl,—that he is a man of blemished character—both in morals and business. Ask anybody in this neighbourhood!"
He had spoken with firm emphasis, his eyes sparkling.
"Everybody in the neighbourhood believes anything bad, about him—and us!" cried Delia.
"Don't, for Heaven's sake, couple yourself, and the man—together!" said Winnington, flushing with anger. "I know nothing about him, when you first arrived here. Mr. Lathrop didn't matter twopence to me before. Now he does matter."
"Why?" Delia's eyes were held to his, fascinated.
"Simply because I care—I care a great deal—what happens to you," he said quietly, after a pause. "Naturally, I must care."
Delia looked away, and began twisting her black sash into knots.
"Bankruptcy—is not exactly a crime."
"Oh, so you knew that farther fact about him? But of course—it is the rest that matters. Since we spoke of this before, I have seen the judge who tried the case in which this man figured. I hate speaking of it in your presence, but you force me. He told me it was one of the worst he had ever known—a case for which there was no defence or excuse whatever."
"Why must I believe it?" cried Delia impetuously. "It's a man's judgment! The woman may have been—Gertrude says she was—horribly unhappy and ill-treated. Yet nothing could be proved—enough to free her. Wait till we have women judges—and women lawyers—then you'll see!"
He laughed indignantly—though not at all inclined to laugh. And what seemed to him her stubborn perversity drove him to despair.
"In this case, if there had been a woman judge, I am inclined to think it would have been a good deal worse for the people concerned. At least I hope so. Don't try to make me believe, Miss Delia, that women are going to forgive treachery and wickedness more easily than men!"
"Oh, 'treachery!'—" she murmured, protesting. His look both intimidated and drew her. Winnington came nearer to her, and suddenly he laid his hand on both of hers. Looking up she was conscious of a look that was half raillery, half tenderness.
"My dear child!—I must call you that—though you are so clever—and so—so determined to have your own way. Look here! I'm going to plead my rights. I've done a good deal for you the last three months—perhaps you hardly know all that has been done. I've been your watch-dog—put it at that. Well, now give the watch-dog, give the Early-Victorian, his bone! Promise me that you will have no more dealings with Mr. Lathrop. Send him back his books—and say 'Not at Home!'"
She was really distressed.
"I can't, Mr. Winnington!—I'm so sorry!—but I can't."
"Why can't you?" He still held her.
A score of thoughts flew hither and thither in her brain. She had asked a great favour of Lathrop—she had actually put the jewels into his hands! How could she recall her action? And when he had done her such a service, if he succeeded in doing it—how was she to turn round on him, and cut him the very next moment?
Nor could she make up her mind to confess to Winnington what she had done. She was bent on her scheme. If she disclosed itnoweverything might be upset.
"I reallycan't!" she repeated, gravely, releasing her hands.
Winnington rose, and began to pace the drawing room. Delia watched him—quivering—an exquisite vision herself, in the half lights of the room.
When he paused at last to speak, she saw a new expression in his eyes.
"I shall have to think this over, Miss Blanchflower—perhaps to reconsider my whole position."
She was startled, but she kept her composure.
"You mean—you may have—after all—to give me up?"
He forced a very chilly smile.
"You remember—you asked me to give you up. Now if it were only one subject—however important—on which we disagreed, I might still do my best, though the responsibility of all you make me connive at is certainly heavy. But if you are entirely to set at defiance not only my advice and wishes as to this illegal society to which you belong, and as to the violent action into which I understand you may be led when you go to town, but also in such a matter as we have just been discussing—then indeed, I see no place for me. I must think it over. A guardian appointed by the Court might be more effective—might influence you more."
"I told you I was a handful," said Delia, trying to laugh. But her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.
He offered no reply—merely repeating "I must think it over!"—and resolutely changing the subject, he made a little perfunctory conversation on a few matters of business—and was gone.
After his departure, Delia sat motionless for half an hour at least, staring at the fire. Then suddenly she sprang up, went to the writing-table, and sat down to write—
"Dear Mr. Mark—Don't give me up! You don't know. Trust me a little! I am not such a fiend as you think. I am grateful—I am indeed. I wish to goodness I could show it. Perhaps I shall some day. I hadn't time to tell you about poor Weston—who's to have an operation—and that I'm not going to town with Gertrude—not for some weeks at any rate. I shall be alone here, looking after Weston. So I can't disgrace or worry you for a good while any way. And you needn't fret about Mr. Lathrop—you needn'treally! I can't explain—not just yet—but it's all right. Mayn't I come and help with some of your cripple children? or the school? or something? If Susy Amberly can do it, I suppose I can—I'd like to. May I sign myself—though Iama handful-"
"Yours affectionately,DELIA BLANCHFLOWER."
She sat staring at the paper, trembling under a stress of feeling she could not understand—the large tears in her eyes.