CHAPTER VIIN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF[image]Chapter VI headpieceThe Admiral was much troubled. A week had elapsed since Madame fainted, and although the mysterious process of unhooking her, together with a dash of water on her face, and the salts, had brought her to very rapidly, a cloud had seemed to hang over the Walk since that moment. It was certainly not itself, and it had grown less like itself as the days passed. Madame was apparently quite well, yet she stayed within doors, or, if she came out, her face was more than usually sad, and she walked with slow steps, like one who bears a heavy burden of sorrow. She was not seen in church on Sunday. Marjolaine was there, bright and happy. She had assured everybody there was nothing really serious the matter with her mother: only a headache. On Monday morning Marjolaine was still her usual merry self, but as the morning wore into the afternoon and the afternoon into the evening she grew restless. The Admiral noticed that she kept on going to the river-bank and looking up and down stream as if she were expecting someone. On Tuesday she was out very early, still apparently watching. On Wednesday she grew silent, and refused to have her usual singing-lesson on the plea that she was not feeling very well. On Thursday she turned unnaturally gay, but there was a hard note in her laughter, and Sir Peter had caught her sobbing in the Gazebo. Fortunately she had not noticed him, and he was able to retire without disturbing her. But he himself was greatly disturbed. The more so as he had seen that Madame was watching her daughter intently, and that every change in Marjolaine was reflected on the elder lady's face.Friday found Marjolaine pale and dejected; and here was midday on Saturday, and she had not yet appeared!Could she be sickening for a serious illness? Sir Peter was nervous and anxious. He was also put out by the fact that although Jack Sayle had promised as he hurriedly rowed away, that he would come to see him on the Monday, the whole week had passed without a sign of the young lieutenant, and without any word of explanation.But the entire Walk was nervous and anxious. It had grown so accustomed to Marjolaine's songs and merry laughter, that as she grew silent and grave, the Walk grew silent and grave with her. Mrs. Poskett's temper underwent a change for the worse, and she and Ruth Pennymint very nearly had words over a milk-can which the dairy-man had carelessly hung on the wrong railing. Ruth's ill-humour was aggravated by the behaviour of Barbara and Basil. They went about sighing and turning up the whites of their eyes; Barbara shut herself up two and three hours every day with the parrot, and Basil ground at the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata, repeating one particularly heart-rending passage so persistently that Ruth wanted to scream.But the man who behaved most strangely of all was Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. That magnificent creature showed all the symptoms of a guilty conscience. It is true he strutted about the Walk, dressed as faultlessly as ever, swung his tassled cane with much of his old elegance, and took snuff with all the airy grace imaginable. And yet—and yet—! Somehow, his clothes seemed to hang loosely on him. Somehow, his hat, though poised at a rakish angle, no longer conveyed the old devil-may-care impression. His face no longer beamed with unassailable self-satisfaction. There was a furtive look in his eyes, as though he were constantly on the watch. It is a low comparison to apply, but if you have ever seen a dog who knows he has just stolen a piece of meat, you have seen Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. Once, when the Admiral, who was stubbornly resisting the universal depression, came up behind him unobserved and suddenly slapped him on the back, he screamed—he positively screamed. "Thought the Bow-street runners was after you?" roared the Admiral heartily. But the tone of fury with which he replied "Certainly not, sir! How dare you?" was so sincere that Sir Peter did not pursue the joke. Evidently he had indeed thought the runners were after him.The Walk was like a drooping flower, and even the Eyesore felt the depressing influence; he fished less hopefully than ever, and it was noticed that he interrupted his fishing more frequently for excursions outside the bounds of Pomander Walk: excursions from which he returned wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and returned each time perhaps a trifle less steadily.Now, all these good people had lost their usual good spirits and their cheery outlook on life merely because one little girl had left off laughing; and she had left off laughing because one very young man had not kept his word.The servants of the Walk were very busy this Saturday morning. Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, was explaining to Abigail, Mrs. Poskett's little maid, that nothing should persuade her to continue wearing the Charity-School costume after she had risen to the dignity of domestic service. Jim was feverishly polishing the Admiral's little brass cannon. That brass cannon was the apple of the Admiral's remaining eye; and at the same time the plague of his life. On every state occasion, such as the King's birthday, or the anniversary of the Battle of Copenhagen, he would, to the great terror of the Walk, have it out, plant it pointing truculently to the opposite side of the river and, standing well away from it, apply a match. This was always an agonised moment of suspense for the Walk. But invariably the gun refused to go off. The Admiral's expletives, however, supplied an efficient substitute. I am sorry to say the failure to explode was always due to an act of treachery on Jim's part. The Walk subscribed five shillings towards that ancient mariner's liquid refreshment, and the ancient mariner withdrew the charge in the dead of night. To-day he was polishing the gun well in view of all the houses. The King's birthday was approaching, and the Walk needed a gentle reminder that unless it wished to be stunned and to have all its windows broken, now was the time to start the usual collection.Nanette came out of Number Four, carrying a rug and a bamboo cane, evidently bent on beating the former on the lawn. Jane drew Jim's attention to her. Then began a battle of tongues. Jim tried to explain that this was not allowed. If she wanted to beat the rug, she must do so in the back garden. Words, none of which either could understand, grew high; Abigail and Jane joined in, and the place became a veritable Babel of screaming voices and of wildly waving arms.Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn opened his window violently. "What's all this?" he cried; and he was such an amazing apparition that the voices sank to sudden silence and the servants rushed, helter-skelter, into their respective houses.Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was finishing his toilet. He was brushing his hair. It stood out on each side of his head like a sort of double mane, and his face looked exactly like the representations of a flaming sun on the cover of an almanac. He was carrying on a conversation with Selina, and both he and his wife were evidently in a bad humour."But, my own Selina," said he, "what was I to do? Be reasonable. I only wrote and told his lordship the boy was carrying on a clandestine love-affair.—No, of course I did n't sign the letter.—None of my business?—Now, Selina, if I had n't wrote he 'd have come again, and all would have been disclosed. We should have been obleeged to leave the Walk.—Drat the Walk?—Oh! fie! That is not how my ring-dove customarily coos.—What? soft words butter no parsnips?—Selina, Selina—! Does my Selina think she is in her kitchen?—Yes; I know I 've made Miss Marjory very unhappy; but we must make other people unhappy, if we 're to be happy ourselves. I 'm sorry for her, very sorry. She's a sweet creature." There was a sound of a broken tea-cup. "There you go again!—You scold me for making her unhappy, and you scold me for being sorry. There 's no pleasing you anyhow!"In his perplexity he had brushed his hair over the top of his head, and now he looked like an angry cockatoo.Marjolaine came slowly and dejectedly out of her house. She heard Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's voice and glanced up at him, but even his wild and wonderful appearance failed to draw a smile from her. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could not retire, much as he would have liked to. He waved a conciliatory hair-brush at her, and cried with assumed cheerfulness, "Ah, Miss Marjory—! How do you do?" then in response to some remark from his wife, he turned and whispered peevishly, "I must speak to her; it's only polite. Don't snivel." He addressed Marjolaine again, deprecatorily, "You are looking a little pale."Marjolaine drew herself up. It was intolerable that anybody should see she was in trouble."I never felt better in my life," she said defiantly."But more like the lily than the rose?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn with a fine touch of lyricism; and then to Selina, "No; I am not talking nonsense! It was a quotation.""How is Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn this morning?" asked Marjolaine."In the highest spirits!" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "My dear Selina," he explained, turning towards the room, "Miss Marjory is kind enough to ask after your health, and I am telling her you are in the highest spirits. Do—not—snivel—she 'll hear you!" To Marjolaine, with a ghastly smile, "Her gaiety is infectious; positively infectious!" Some hard object, thrown with unerring aim, caught him in the small of the back. "Oh, Lord!" he cried. "Excuse me, Miss Marjory; Selina has just remembered a joke she wishes to tell me. Thus the hours pass in innocent mirth and badinage. Excuse me!" He turned away. "You reallyare—!" he cried, almost viciously; and slammed the window, and disappeared.But Marjolaine never smiled. She moved as one who had no particular object in life. She drifted instinctively towards the river-bank although she knew that strain her eyes as she might the little boat she had looked for all the week was now less likely than ever to appear. At one moment she seemed almost inclined to speak to the Eyesore; to ask him whether he had seen what she had so long been vainly looking for. But the Eyesore was at that instant impaling a worm, and was altogether too revolting. She stood a moment looking up and down the stream, and then turned away with a great sigh.Mrs. Poskett's great yellow cat, Sempronius, was curled up in the sun just behind the Gazebo. Marjolaine looked at him. She and he were fast friends, and in happier times she would have had a friendly word for him and an affectionate caress. To-day, even that was too much of an effort. Fortunately Sempronius was asleep and did not notice her inattention.Sir Peter Antrobus opened his upstair window and hung the osier cage with the thrush in it on its nail. He caught sight of the disconsolate little figure. "Missie, ahoy!" he roared, as though he were hailing a friendly craft in the offing. Marjolaine started."Oh, Sir Peter! You made me jump!""Sent a shot across your bows—what?" roared the Admiral."How's the thrush?" asked Marjolaine with an interest she did not feel."Peaky. Peaky. That confounded cat next door's been watching him. Seen him about anywhere?"Marjolaine pointed to where Sempronius was lying wrapped in innocent slumber. "He's quite safe," she said. "There."But the Eyesore was between him and Sir Peter, and the latter had to twist himself into what was for so portly a gentleman a very unnatural position in order to see him. "Eh? Where?""There," she answered, "there, behind the—" she was just going to say "Eyesore," but stopped herself in time. "Behind the Gazebo.""Oh, there! Well, if he moves I'll kill him!"Marjolaine wondered. Could Sir Peter tell her what she so much wanted to know? Could he, at least, be brought to talk about what her heart was full of?"Sir Peter," she said, with as much of her old cheerfulness as she could summon, and with that pretty way of hers which no one could resist, "Are you very busy? Could you spare time for a little chat?""With you?" cried the Admiral, gallantly. "Hours!" He vanished from the window and was heard tumbling down his stairs two at a time. I believe if he had been only a few years younger he would have slid down the balustrade. Jim told Jane later in the day he had never seen anything like it.Marjolaine waited for him under the elm, and pondered how she was to lead the conversation round to what she wanted to hear.The Admiral burst out of his house. For once he took no notice of the Eyesore. The cat, however, did arrest his attention. Sempronius, scenting an enemy, was blinking at him out of one eye. Sempronius' attitude towards the Admiral was one of armed neutrality. He knew Sir Peter bore him no good-will, but he also knew Sir Peter dare not touch him. Wherefore, although he kept a wary look-out, even the Admiral's threatening gesture was not enough to make him stir from his sunny corner.Sir Peter came to Marjolaine."He's sitting there, watching the Eyesore like a tiger. Shows cats have no sense. 'Pears to think the Eyesore's going to catch a fish! Ha! Never caught a fish in his born days!" He took both Marjolaine's hands in his. "Well, Missie; what can I do for you?""Talk to me," said Marjolaine.Sir Peter was flattered and delighted. Their little Missie was coming to life again. "Ah!—tell ye what," he said, swinging her hands, "If we had that fiddler here, we might practise the hornpipe!" He whistled gaily and tried to force her into the step."No, no!" she cried, breaking away from him; and then, more gently, "No: not to-day!"The Admiral looked at her anxiously out of his one eye. "Oh?" said he, sympathetically, "In the doldrums?""Sir Peter," she cried, impulsively, "was you ever broken-hearted?""Lord bless your pretty eyes, yes! Every time I left port.""Ah! but did the world seem like an empty husk? and did you want to sit down and cry your eyes out?"This was much worse than the Admiral had anticipated. He must try to make her laugh."Well, ye see, I could only have cried one out, was it ever-so!""Then what did you do? How did you cure yourself?""Why, with a jorum of rum, to be sure!"Marjolaine was disappointed. "Oh!—I can't do that!"Sir Peter came closer. "What? Are you broken-hearted?"Good heavens! What had she been saying? Had she given away her precious secret?"Certainly not!" she answered, with flaming cheeks. "Of course not. It's nothing. Only somebody—somebody has broken their word.""Look-a-that, now!" cried the Admiral, puzzled. "But I'll cure you! I'll tell you a story. Something funny. How I lost my eye—what?" He drew her down beside him on the seat under the elm. "Ye see, it was on board o' theTermagant—""When you was with Nelson?" asked Marjolaine."Ay. Battle o' Copenhagen; year Eighteen-one."Here was a possible opening. At any rate Marjolaine would try."I suppose you had many officers under you?" she insinuated."Hundreds!" cried Sir Peter, enthusiastically; and then, feeling he had conveyed an exaggerated impression, "well—when I say hundreds—!" his memory awoke. "Ah! I was somebody, then!—But this infernal government—!"Marjolaine laid her hand soothingly on his arm. "I suppose some of them were quite young?" she said, with splendidly assumed indifference. Every woman is a born actress."Middies?" cried the Admiral, with magnificent contempt. "Lord love ye, I took no notice o' them! Passel o' powder-monkeys!" Then he added with a touch of tender recollection, "Not but what Jack Sayle—""Jack what?" said Marjolaine quickly, as if she had not heard."Sayle. Jack Sayle. You know. Young feller I presented to your lady-mother a week ago. Time she swooned—""Oh, yes.""Gobblessmysoul! I was startled! I thought—"The Admiral must not be allowed to wander from the only topic that mattered. Marjolaine interrupted him. "Was he on your ship?""What, Jack Sayle? Ay, was he. And a fine young feller, too. Of course you was much too agitated to notice him last Saturday. Gad! I wonder he has n't been to see me all the week. Promised he would. Said he 'd come last Monday.""Did he?" cried Marjory. So he had broken his word in two places!"He did. There! He's only on leave, and he has heavy social duties. Only son of Lord Otford, y' know.""Lord Otford!" Marjolaine repeated, amazed. The name and the title somehow impressed her with a sense of vague fear."Ay, ay," the unconscious Admiral proceeded garrulously. "My old friend. Otford's selfish about him. Ye see, the boy 'll come into a great estate. Half a county. And the old man's anxious about his marriage.""Whose marriage?" asked Marjory, almost voicelessly."Why, Jack's, to be sure!—Lord!—they marry 'em now before they 're out of their swaddling clothes. Otford's in a hurry to secure the succession—" He stopped abruptly. This was really not a subject to discuss with a young girl. "Hum!—what I was about to say—er—the Honourable Caroline Thring—!""Caroline Thring"—Marjolaine repeated the name to herself. It was a name to remember."Ay—daughter and sole heiress of Lord Wendover. Not my sort. Goes about doing good—like the party last Saturday. But the two estates 'll cover the county. It's an undoubted match—"Marjolaine had heard all she wanted—and more. She felt she would break down if the Admiral went on. She looked all around the Walk for help; for some excuse to break off the conversation. There was only Sempronius. "I think—" she just gave herself time to make up her mind as to what she could think—"I think I saw Sempronius stirring!"Sir Peter jumped up. "Damn that cat!" he cried—"Beg pardon!—I'll—" But the golden-haired Sempronius was sound asleep with his bushy tail over his nose.Whether the Eyesore was shocked by the Admiral's bad language—which seems unlikely—or whether he was moved by his usual thirst, he dropped his fishing-rod, and vanished round the corner.The Admiral hurried back."No. He 's quiet enough." He saw Marjolaine's sad face and added, "Gobblessmysoul! Here I 've been boring you about a young feller you don't know—" To his amazement Marjolaine turned her face away abruptly. The Admiral stopped short. Why did she turn away? Was it possible that—? How long had Jack been in the Walk when he met him a week ago? "Doyou know him?" said he. Marjolaine was silent. Sir Peter gave a low whistle. He took her gently by the shoulder and turned her towards him. "Here, I say, young woman—You just look me in the eye." He pointed to his good one. "This eye." Marjolaine stood before him in confusion. It made her angry to feel confused. Why should she feel confused? "I—I have seen him once," she answered bravely."Have you, begad!—So that's what he was cruising about here for, was it?—But I'll teach him!"Marjolaine was very angry indeed. "Sir Peter!" she flashed at him, "If you breathe it, I 'll never speak to you again!""D' ye think I 'll have him coming here—?""But he's not coming here!" cried Marjolaine; and with a meaning of her own: "Oh, don't you see he's not coming?—Swear you won't breathe a word to a living soul! Swear! Swear!""Damme!" cried the Admiral. "I must think that over. And as for you," he added, with humorous sternness, "you come and sit under the tree and I 'll talk to you like a Dutch uncle."Marjolaine saw Mrs. Poskett at her window. It would not do for Sir Peter to talk to her like an uncle—Dutch or otherwise. "Sir Peter!" she cried, "Sempronius is going to jump!"Sir Peter rushed to the cat again, and again found him sound asleep. He turned furiously towards Marjolaine, but Mrs. Poskett intercepted him. "Good morning, Sir Peter!"Sir Peter looked up, where the widow was shaking the ribbons of her cap at him. "Morning, ma'am," he said, sulkily. "Your cat—""Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Poskett, craning forward to see her pet. "Dear Sempronius!—Don't disturb him! He's so happy!""But—!""I 'm sure it's going to rain," the widow explained. "He always sits there when he feels rain coming; because the fish rise, and he loves watching them.""Confounded nonsense," growled Sir Peter.Mrs. Poskett closed her window, and Sir Peter was on the point of returning to Marjolaine and having it out with her, when Madame Lachesnais came out of her house. Of course that made all conversation with the girl impossible, and as he did not feel he could meet the mother, knowing what he now knew, there was nothing left for him but to salute her and beat a hasty retreat into his own house and think things over.CHAPTER VIISHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF[image]Chapter VII headpieceEngrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week; but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains. Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time—long ago: twenty years ago and more—when she herself had looked and spoken and moved, just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for that. In Marjolaine's case there could be no reason. No one had crossed her young life—or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant memories of her own youth!—Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable. Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure? In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders. And, to be sure, her own father—she had lost her mother in early youth—had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl's sentimental nonsense. But she—had she paid enough attention to her daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man—Jack Sayle, of all people in the world!—had won Marjolaine's heart, why, here were the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind. Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however, and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and would do it.She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her shoulders and gently called her by her name.[image]"SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"The touch of her mother's arm, the sound of her mother's voice let loose the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms round her mother's waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat down beside her and drew her very close. "Chérie—my darling! What is the matter?"Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed the tears from her eyes, as she answered—"Nothing, Maman. I think—it is so beautiful here!—So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a little on your heart."There was a sad smile on Madame's face. As if you cried because the sun was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week? Cry, my darling, and tell me.""There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs. "Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the river. "There was something; but—" and down went her head on her mother's breast—"there is nothing now."Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!—I tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were parted.""Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no longer exists. It has"—she made one of her quaint little gestures—"it has—evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her face.Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then, there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young girl's heart? "Ah, chérie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists: it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you tell me."Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and anxious to speak, she had nothing to say."Tell me," repeated Madame."I can't, Maman.""Why not?""I cannot begin alone: I don't know how.""Shall I help you, Marjolaine?""Can you?"Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively."Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger, that young man—"There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet. Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her, the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"—she spoke quietly but intensely—"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and—" her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had stood—"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on! And all the time my heart was singing!—He told me his name; and my heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her voice sank to an awed whisper. "And—Mother!—I seemed to step out of childhood suddenly, into—into what, Mother?—What was it?""Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far, so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour. Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had stepped across the threshold of childhood.But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again—but he never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet. "He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried away!—Oh, mother, what is it?"Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us, poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"Marjolaine looked up at her with great, innocent eyes. "But it would have been the same if you had been there!""I suppose so," said Madame, sadly. "There is no barrier against it: not even a mother's arms.""But what is it?" asked Marjolaine, wistfully.Her mother looked at her searchingly, and Marjolaine met her gaze steadfastly, with her clear, truthful eyes. It was patent she did not indeed know what caused this new pain at her heart. Madame looked long. Her daughter seemed, in a way, suddenly to have become a stranger to her. This child was a child no longer, and her mother no longer held the first place in her heart. Yes! and if Marjolaine had suddenly leapt out of childhood, then she, the mother, must begin to face old age: she was the mother of a marriageable girl. She would fight against this while she could; not for unworthy or small motives, but to keep her daughter's companionship. Who was this Jack Sayle that he should come like a thief in the night and steal Marjolaine's youth, her happiness and her peace of mind, and tear the girl out of her mother's arms? "No," she said, at last, "I will not tell you. If I told you it would grow stronger; and it must not. It shall not. You must win yourself back, as I did. Oh! but sooner, and more completely!"Marjolaine was amazed. Had her mother gone through what she was going through now? "As you did—?" she cried, in a voice which betrayed her astonishment.Madame smiled sadly. "My dearest dear, the young never realise they are not beginning the world. Your story is mine."With a cry of "Oh, mother!" Marjolaine nestled closer."Yes; but mine was longer and therefore left more pain in its track. Chérie, chérie, I am not telling you this to make light of your sorrow, but to show you I know what your pain is: to show you how to fight now, now, with all your might, to win yourself back." She paused a moment, to gather her thoughts and to gather strength. Then she continued very softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself, "It was years and years ago, in my father's garden—in the old vicarage garden—that I felt the sun and the song enter my heart. He and I were very young and very happy." Madame paused. "And then he rode away; and I never saw him again.""Maman!" whispered Marjolaine, stroking her mother's cheek."We had lived in our dream a whole year; so my love—"Marjolaine started at the word. "Love!" Was this love?—But her mother did not notice her, and went on; "So my love had time to grow. Its roots were twined round my heart; and when he left me, and tore the roots out of me, I thought he had torn my heart out with them.""Like me," said Marjolaine, below her breath.Madame drew her closer, and whispered, "Would you like to know his name?"There was something in her mother's voice which told Marjolaine her mother had some special reason for asking her. "Yes; what was it?" she asked, hushed, and very tenderly.Her mother looked straight into her eyes and answered slowly, "Jack—Sayle."Marjolaine recoiled in amazement. "Mother!—I don't understand!""The father of the boy you have seen!""How wonderful!""Much more wonderful things happen every day. It's much more wonderful that I can tell you this now: that I ever grew out of my love. For I loved him—ah, how deeply!"There was a long silence.Here was a curious thing. If any profane eye had lighted on the group—the young girl kneeling at Madame's feet in the green coolness of the elm; that profane eye would have got the impression that here were a mother and daughter closely linked in some common sorrow, and clinging to each other for mutual consolation. In one sense that impression would have been the right one; but in one sense only. Their thoughts were worlds apart. Madame was remembering the days when she was Lucy Pryor, the daughter of the vicar of Otford. The great Lord Otford was Lord of the Manor, and his son, the Honourable John Sayle, being a delicate lad, was studying desultorily with the Vicar. The Vicar was more interested in butterflies than in Greek roots, and the boy and girl spent most of their time in the great vicarage garden. Thus the lad had grown strong and well set up. He was gazetted into the Army, and sent to America, where the war had just broken out. There he stayed five years. Lucy treasured the dearest memories of her playfellow, and when he came back, a splendid lieutenant, it is hardly necessary to say that they fell seriously in love. Their love was patent to everyone except the vicar and the old Lord. When the latter discovered it, his fury was indescribable. He drove the vicar out of his living, and had him transferred to a miserable parish in the East-end of London, where there was n't a single butterfly; and he sent his son, who had retired from the army, on the Grand Tour. The lovers parted, vowing to be faithful; but young Sayle very soon forgot his vows in the excitement of travel. At Rome he met the Honourable Mabel Scott, daughter of Lord Polhousie, and, to cut a long story short, he married her, without a thought for poor Lucy, whom the shock nearly killed. Nor did he ever know the blow he had inflicted, nor ever hear from her, or of her, again. She was lost in the wilderness of London. A few years later he had succeeded his father, and was sent as Ambassador to Vienna. In the same year his son John—our Jack—was born, and his birth was closely followed by the mother's death.Marjolaine, too, was thinking hard. All sorts of new ideas, new conceptions, were looming on her horizon. They came as angels, certainly, but angels with flaming swords. It seemed that great happiness could be inextricably interwoven with great misery, so that a simple human being could not tell where the one began and the other ended. It seemed that a man could say one thing and mean another: that he could look like the Archangel Michael and yet not mean what he said. It seemed that you could be wounded in all your finest and most sensitive nerves just for looking at a man. It seemed also, that your pride was of no use to you whatever, but deserted you when it was most needed, or, rather, turned against you, and helped to hurt you. This must be enquired into."Mère, chérie," she whispered."What, my darling?" asked Madame, coming out of her dream.Marjolaine pressed her hand to her heart. There was an actual physical pain there, as if an iron band were crushing it. "Is this—is what I feel—love?""Ah!" cried Madame, "I have betrayed myself. I did not mean you to know. I am afraid it was going to be—love.""Going to be! But it is! Or else, this ache? What is it?""Crush it now!" Madame was distressed. She would not allow Marjolaine's young life to be blighted as her own had been. "Crush it now! Fiercely! ruthlessly! and it will be nothing. You have only seen him once—""Does that make any difference?"What could one answer to such a question? One could only ignore it. "You must be very brave; very determined; and put the thought of him away."Marjolaine shook her head sadly. How could she put the thought of him away? It was in her. It filled her. It was she herself. And did she want to put it away? Would she put it away if she could? It seemed to her that if the thought were withdrawn now, she would be left a hollow husk of a thing, with no thought at all.Madame saw she had gone too far too quickly. "Dear, I know. It took me a long time, because I had been happy so long; but at last, when your father came, I was able to put my hand in his, and look straight into his eyes."Here was a new mystery for Marjolaine. So good and beautiful a woman as her mother could love twice, then?"Mother," said she, with grave enquiry, "did you love my father as much as you had loved Jack?"However good and blameless we may be, it is a very uncomfortable experience to be cross-examined by utter, single-minded innocence."Listen," said Madame, "life is long, and nature merciful. I recovered very slowly; but I tried to be brave; I tried to take an interest in the life around me: the sordid, sunless life of the very poor, so much sadder than my own. Then Jules Lachesnais came to live with us—with my father and me—in order to study the English language and our political institutions. A great friendship sprang up between us. When my father died, Jules urged me to marry him. I was utterly alone in the world; I felt a deep affection for him; and I consented."She waited for Marjolaine to say something; but Marjolaine was silent."He took me to France, where you were born. We went through the horrors of the Revolution side by side. He played an active part in those horrible days; always on the side of justice and moderation. The aim of his life was to see his country under a constitutional government, such as he had learnt to admire during his stay in England. The excesses he was forced to witness disgusted him, and he resisted them with all his might." Madame was lost in her reminiscences. "Ah, yes! You were too young to know; but we all ran grave risks of falling victims to the guillotine. Your father hailed Napoleon as a deliverer; but when Napoleon began to usurp power, he foresaw the dawning tyranny; still more when Napoleon was made consul for life. He retired more and more from public affairs, thereby incurring the tyrant's anger and again endangering his life. When Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor your father protested publicly—think of the courage! He was expelled, and he died disappointed and heartbroken. He was a brave, true man, faithful to his ideals. I was very proud of him; very happy and contented. And Iamvery happy and contented now," she added defiantly,—"or I shall be, when I see you have won the victory!"But Marjolaine was merciless. This was all very well, as far as her mother was concerned. "But what became of poor Jack?" she asked."Poor Jack!" Madame laughed bitterly. "Poor Jack had married some great lady!"At once poor Jack had lost all Marjolaine's sympathy. She muttered between her teeth, "Caroline Thring.""I tell you," protested Madame—and perhaps she protested just a shade too strongly—"I ceased to think of him. I forgot him."Marjolaine's brow was puckered in thought. Could one forget? "But, mother," she said, very simply, "if you had forgotten him, why did you swoon when you heard his name?"Down went the cloak of self-deception Madame had so carefully wrapped round herself. She took her daughter's face in both her hands and looked at her sadly. "Ah! my little girl is become a woman indeed! The innocence of the dove, and the guile of the serpent!—Well! Think over what I have told you. Come, now, chérie, you promise to fight?""Yes," said Marjolaine, without conviction."You promise to conquer?""I promise to try.""At least you see there can be nothing between Lord Otford's son and my daughter?""Yes." Oh, what a hesitating yes!Madame folded her in her arms. "Try to lighten someone else's sorrow," she said, kissing her tenderly, "then you will forget your own, and the roses will bloom in your cheeks again."The Walk was beginning to show signs of life. The Eyesore came slouching back, and resumed his fishing with a lack-lustre eye. The early housekeeping having got itself done, the ladies of the Walk were showing themselves at their windows, tending their flowers or dusting their ornaments. Miss Ruth Pennymint came bustling out of her door, with needlework. She looked up at the overcast sky and held up the back of her hand."Ah," said Madame, catching sight of her. "Coming into the fresh air to work, Miss Ruth?"Miss Ruth was evidently not in the best of tempers. "Of course it's going to rain," she snapped."Oh, not yet," said Madame, conciliatorily."Do you mind if I sew here?" said Miss Ruth. "It's so lonesome in the house, when Barbara's locked up with that precious bird!"What could be the matter? The word "precious" was uttered in a manner which conveyed an exactly opposite meaning. Madame said soothingly, "That is so touching!" And Ruth snorted. There is no other word. She snorted. Madame and Marjolaine glanced at each other, and both moved towards the house. But Miss Ruth had no intention of being left alone. "Marjory!" she called. Marjolaine came back; and Madame went into Number Four alone.
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH POMANDER WALK IS NOT QUITE ITSELF
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Chapter VI headpiece
The Admiral was much troubled. A week had elapsed since Madame fainted, and although the mysterious process of unhooking her, together with a dash of water on her face, and the salts, had brought her to very rapidly, a cloud had seemed to hang over the Walk since that moment. It was certainly not itself, and it had grown less like itself as the days passed. Madame was apparently quite well, yet she stayed within doors, or, if she came out, her face was more than usually sad, and she walked with slow steps, like one who bears a heavy burden of sorrow. She was not seen in church on Sunday. Marjolaine was there, bright and happy. She had assured everybody there was nothing really serious the matter with her mother: only a headache. On Monday morning Marjolaine was still her usual merry self, but as the morning wore into the afternoon and the afternoon into the evening she grew restless. The Admiral noticed that she kept on going to the river-bank and looking up and down stream as if she were expecting someone. On Tuesday she was out very early, still apparently watching. On Wednesday she grew silent, and refused to have her usual singing-lesson on the plea that she was not feeling very well. On Thursday she turned unnaturally gay, but there was a hard note in her laughter, and Sir Peter had caught her sobbing in the Gazebo. Fortunately she had not noticed him, and he was able to retire without disturbing her. But he himself was greatly disturbed. The more so as he had seen that Madame was watching her daughter intently, and that every change in Marjolaine was reflected on the elder lady's face.
Friday found Marjolaine pale and dejected; and here was midday on Saturday, and she had not yet appeared!
Could she be sickening for a serious illness? Sir Peter was nervous and anxious. He was also put out by the fact that although Jack Sayle had promised as he hurriedly rowed away, that he would come to see him on the Monday, the whole week had passed without a sign of the young lieutenant, and without any word of explanation.
But the entire Walk was nervous and anxious. It had grown so accustomed to Marjolaine's songs and merry laughter, that as she grew silent and grave, the Walk grew silent and grave with her. Mrs. Poskett's temper underwent a change for the worse, and she and Ruth Pennymint very nearly had words over a milk-can which the dairy-man had carelessly hung on the wrong railing. Ruth's ill-humour was aggravated by the behaviour of Barbara and Basil. They went about sighing and turning up the whites of their eyes; Barbara shut herself up two and three hours every day with the parrot, and Basil ground at the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata, repeating one particularly heart-rending passage so persistently that Ruth wanted to scream.
But the man who behaved most strangely of all was Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. That magnificent creature showed all the symptoms of a guilty conscience. It is true he strutted about the Walk, dressed as faultlessly as ever, swung his tassled cane with much of his old elegance, and took snuff with all the airy grace imaginable. And yet—and yet—! Somehow, his clothes seemed to hang loosely on him. Somehow, his hat, though poised at a rakish angle, no longer conveyed the old devil-may-care impression. His face no longer beamed with unassailable self-satisfaction. There was a furtive look in his eyes, as though he were constantly on the watch. It is a low comparison to apply, but if you have ever seen a dog who knows he has just stolen a piece of meat, you have seen Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. Once, when the Admiral, who was stubbornly resisting the universal depression, came up behind him unobserved and suddenly slapped him on the back, he screamed—he positively screamed. "Thought the Bow-street runners was after you?" roared the Admiral heartily. But the tone of fury with which he replied "Certainly not, sir! How dare you?" was so sincere that Sir Peter did not pursue the joke. Evidently he had indeed thought the runners were after him.
The Walk was like a drooping flower, and even the Eyesore felt the depressing influence; he fished less hopefully than ever, and it was noticed that he interrupted his fishing more frequently for excursions outside the bounds of Pomander Walk: excursions from which he returned wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and returned each time perhaps a trifle less steadily.
Now, all these good people had lost their usual good spirits and their cheery outlook on life merely because one little girl had left off laughing; and she had left off laughing because one very young man had not kept his word.
The servants of the Walk were very busy this Saturday morning. Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's nurse, was explaining to Abigail, Mrs. Poskett's little maid, that nothing should persuade her to continue wearing the Charity-School costume after she had risen to the dignity of domestic service. Jim was feverishly polishing the Admiral's little brass cannon. That brass cannon was the apple of the Admiral's remaining eye; and at the same time the plague of his life. On every state occasion, such as the King's birthday, or the anniversary of the Battle of Copenhagen, he would, to the great terror of the Walk, have it out, plant it pointing truculently to the opposite side of the river and, standing well away from it, apply a match. This was always an agonised moment of suspense for the Walk. But invariably the gun refused to go off. The Admiral's expletives, however, supplied an efficient substitute. I am sorry to say the failure to explode was always due to an act of treachery on Jim's part. The Walk subscribed five shillings towards that ancient mariner's liquid refreshment, and the ancient mariner withdrew the charge in the dead of night. To-day he was polishing the gun well in view of all the houses. The King's birthday was approaching, and the Walk needed a gentle reminder that unless it wished to be stunned and to have all its windows broken, now was the time to start the usual collection.
Nanette came out of Number Four, carrying a rug and a bamboo cane, evidently bent on beating the former on the lawn. Jane drew Jim's attention to her. Then began a battle of tongues. Jim tried to explain that this was not allowed. If she wanted to beat the rug, she must do so in the back garden. Words, none of which either could understand, grew high; Abigail and Jane joined in, and the place became a veritable Babel of screaming voices and of wildly waving arms.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn opened his window violently. "What's all this?" he cried; and he was such an amazing apparition that the voices sank to sudden silence and the servants rushed, helter-skelter, into their respective houses.
Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was finishing his toilet. He was brushing his hair. It stood out on each side of his head like a sort of double mane, and his face looked exactly like the representations of a flaming sun on the cover of an almanac. He was carrying on a conversation with Selina, and both he and his wife were evidently in a bad humour.
"But, my own Selina," said he, "what was I to do? Be reasonable. I only wrote and told his lordship the boy was carrying on a clandestine love-affair.—No, of course I did n't sign the letter.—None of my business?—Now, Selina, if I had n't wrote he 'd have come again, and all would have been disclosed. We should have been obleeged to leave the Walk.—Drat the Walk?—Oh! fie! That is not how my ring-dove customarily coos.—What? soft words butter no parsnips?—Selina, Selina—! Does my Selina think she is in her kitchen?—Yes; I know I 've made Miss Marjory very unhappy; but we must make other people unhappy, if we 're to be happy ourselves. I 'm sorry for her, very sorry. She's a sweet creature." There was a sound of a broken tea-cup. "There you go again!—You scold me for making her unhappy, and you scold me for being sorry. There 's no pleasing you anyhow!"
In his perplexity he had brushed his hair over the top of his head, and now he looked like an angry cockatoo.
Marjolaine came slowly and dejectedly out of her house. She heard Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn's voice and glanced up at him, but even his wild and wonderful appearance failed to draw a smile from her. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn could not retire, much as he would have liked to. He waved a conciliatory hair-brush at her, and cried with assumed cheerfulness, "Ah, Miss Marjory—! How do you do?" then in response to some remark from his wife, he turned and whispered peevishly, "I must speak to her; it's only polite. Don't snivel." He addressed Marjolaine again, deprecatorily, "You are looking a little pale."
Marjolaine drew herself up. It was intolerable that anybody should see she was in trouble.
"I never felt better in my life," she said defiantly.
"But more like the lily than the rose?" exclaimed Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn with a fine touch of lyricism; and then to Selina, "No; I am not talking nonsense! It was a quotation."
"How is Mrs. Brooke-Hoskyn this morning?" asked Marjolaine.
"In the highest spirits!" cried Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "My dear Selina," he explained, turning towards the room, "Miss Marjory is kind enough to ask after your health, and I am telling her you are in the highest spirits. Do—not—snivel—she 'll hear you!" To Marjolaine, with a ghastly smile, "Her gaiety is infectious; positively infectious!" Some hard object, thrown with unerring aim, caught him in the small of the back. "Oh, Lord!" he cried. "Excuse me, Miss Marjory; Selina has just remembered a joke she wishes to tell me. Thus the hours pass in innocent mirth and badinage. Excuse me!" He turned away. "You reallyare—!" he cried, almost viciously; and slammed the window, and disappeared.
But Marjolaine never smiled. She moved as one who had no particular object in life. She drifted instinctively towards the river-bank although she knew that strain her eyes as she might the little boat she had looked for all the week was now less likely than ever to appear. At one moment she seemed almost inclined to speak to the Eyesore; to ask him whether he had seen what she had so long been vainly looking for. But the Eyesore was at that instant impaling a worm, and was altogether too revolting. She stood a moment looking up and down the stream, and then turned away with a great sigh.
Mrs. Poskett's great yellow cat, Sempronius, was curled up in the sun just behind the Gazebo. Marjolaine looked at him. She and he were fast friends, and in happier times she would have had a friendly word for him and an affectionate caress. To-day, even that was too much of an effort. Fortunately Sempronius was asleep and did not notice her inattention.
Sir Peter Antrobus opened his upstair window and hung the osier cage with the thrush in it on its nail. He caught sight of the disconsolate little figure. "Missie, ahoy!" he roared, as though he were hailing a friendly craft in the offing. Marjolaine started.
"Oh, Sir Peter! You made me jump!"
"Sent a shot across your bows—what?" roared the Admiral.
"How's the thrush?" asked Marjolaine with an interest she did not feel.
"Peaky. Peaky. That confounded cat next door's been watching him. Seen him about anywhere?"
Marjolaine pointed to where Sempronius was lying wrapped in innocent slumber. "He's quite safe," she said. "There."
But the Eyesore was between him and Sir Peter, and the latter had to twist himself into what was for so portly a gentleman a very unnatural position in order to see him. "Eh? Where?"
"There," she answered, "there, behind the—" she was just going to say "Eyesore," but stopped herself in time. "Behind the Gazebo."
"Oh, there! Well, if he moves I'll kill him!"
Marjolaine wondered. Could Sir Peter tell her what she so much wanted to know? Could he, at least, be brought to talk about what her heart was full of?
"Sir Peter," she said, with as much of her old cheerfulness as she could summon, and with that pretty way of hers which no one could resist, "Are you very busy? Could you spare time for a little chat?"
"With you?" cried the Admiral, gallantly. "Hours!" He vanished from the window and was heard tumbling down his stairs two at a time. I believe if he had been only a few years younger he would have slid down the balustrade. Jim told Jane later in the day he had never seen anything like it.
Marjolaine waited for him under the elm, and pondered how she was to lead the conversation round to what she wanted to hear.
The Admiral burst out of his house. For once he took no notice of the Eyesore. The cat, however, did arrest his attention. Sempronius, scenting an enemy, was blinking at him out of one eye. Sempronius' attitude towards the Admiral was one of armed neutrality. He knew Sir Peter bore him no good-will, but he also knew Sir Peter dare not touch him. Wherefore, although he kept a wary look-out, even the Admiral's threatening gesture was not enough to make him stir from his sunny corner.
Sir Peter came to Marjolaine.
"He's sitting there, watching the Eyesore like a tiger. Shows cats have no sense. 'Pears to think the Eyesore's going to catch a fish! Ha! Never caught a fish in his born days!" He took both Marjolaine's hands in his. "Well, Missie; what can I do for you?"
"Talk to me," said Marjolaine.
Sir Peter was flattered and delighted. Their little Missie was coming to life again. "Ah!—tell ye what," he said, swinging her hands, "If we had that fiddler here, we might practise the hornpipe!" He whistled gaily and tried to force her into the step.
"No, no!" she cried, breaking away from him; and then, more gently, "No: not to-day!"
The Admiral looked at her anxiously out of his one eye. "Oh?" said he, sympathetically, "In the doldrums?"
"Sir Peter," she cried, impulsively, "was you ever broken-hearted?"
"Lord bless your pretty eyes, yes! Every time I left port."
"Ah! but did the world seem like an empty husk? and did you want to sit down and cry your eyes out?"
This was much worse than the Admiral had anticipated. He must try to make her laugh.
"Well, ye see, I could only have cried one out, was it ever-so!"
"Then what did you do? How did you cure yourself?"
"Why, with a jorum of rum, to be sure!"
Marjolaine was disappointed. "Oh!—I can't do that!"
Sir Peter came closer. "What? Are you broken-hearted?"
Good heavens! What had she been saying? Had she given away her precious secret?
"Certainly not!" she answered, with flaming cheeks. "Of course not. It's nothing. Only somebody—somebody has broken their word."
"Look-a-that, now!" cried the Admiral, puzzled. "But I'll cure you! I'll tell you a story. Something funny. How I lost my eye—what?" He drew her down beside him on the seat under the elm. "Ye see, it was on board o' theTermagant—"
"When you was with Nelson?" asked Marjolaine.
"Ay. Battle o' Copenhagen; year Eighteen-one."
Here was a possible opening. At any rate Marjolaine would try.
"I suppose you had many officers under you?" she insinuated.
"Hundreds!" cried Sir Peter, enthusiastically; and then, feeling he had conveyed an exaggerated impression, "well—when I say hundreds—!" his memory awoke. "Ah! I was somebody, then!—But this infernal government—!"
Marjolaine laid her hand soothingly on his arm. "I suppose some of them were quite young?" she said, with splendidly assumed indifference. Every woman is a born actress.
"Middies?" cried the Admiral, with magnificent contempt. "Lord love ye, I took no notice o' them! Passel o' powder-monkeys!" Then he added with a touch of tender recollection, "Not but what Jack Sayle—"
"Jack what?" said Marjolaine quickly, as if she had not heard.
"Sayle. Jack Sayle. You know. Young feller I presented to your lady-mother a week ago. Time she swooned—"
"Oh, yes."
"Gobblessmysoul! I was startled! I thought—"
The Admiral must not be allowed to wander from the only topic that mattered. Marjolaine interrupted him. "Was he on your ship?"
"What, Jack Sayle? Ay, was he. And a fine young feller, too. Of course you was much too agitated to notice him last Saturday. Gad! I wonder he has n't been to see me all the week. Promised he would. Said he 'd come last Monday."
"Did he?" cried Marjory. So he had broken his word in two places!
"He did. There! He's only on leave, and he has heavy social duties. Only son of Lord Otford, y' know."
"Lord Otford!" Marjolaine repeated, amazed. The name and the title somehow impressed her with a sense of vague fear.
"Ay, ay," the unconscious Admiral proceeded garrulously. "My old friend. Otford's selfish about him. Ye see, the boy 'll come into a great estate. Half a county. And the old man's anxious about his marriage."
"Whose marriage?" asked Marjory, almost voicelessly.
"Why, Jack's, to be sure!—Lord!—they marry 'em now before they 're out of their swaddling clothes. Otford's in a hurry to secure the succession—" He stopped abruptly. This was really not a subject to discuss with a young girl. "Hum!—what I was about to say—er—the Honourable Caroline Thring—!"
"Caroline Thring"—Marjolaine repeated the name to herself. It was a name to remember.
"Ay—daughter and sole heiress of Lord Wendover. Not my sort. Goes about doing good—like the party last Saturday. But the two estates 'll cover the county. It's an undoubted match—"
Marjolaine had heard all she wanted—and more. She felt she would break down if the Admiral went on. She looked all around the Walk for help; for some excuse to break off the conversation. There was only Sempronius. "I think—" she just gave herself time to make up her mind as to what she could think—"I think I saw Sempronius stirring!"
Sir Peter jumped up. "Damn that cat!" he cried—"Beg pardon!—I'll—" But the golden-haired Sempronius was sound asleep with his bushy tail over his nose.
Whether the Eyesore was shocked by the Admiral's bad language—which seems unlikely—or whether he was moved by his usual thirst, he dropped his fishing-rod, and vanished round the corner.
The Admiral hurried back.
"No. He 's quiet enough." He saw Marjolaine's sad face and added, "Gobblessmysoul! Here I 've been boring you about a young feller you don't know—" To his amazement Marjolaine turned her face away abruptly. The Admiral stopped short. Why did she turn away? Was it possible that—? How long had Jack been in the Walk when he met him a week ago? "Doyou know him?" said he. Marjolaine was silent. Sir Peter gave a low whistle. He took her gently by the shoulder and turned her towards him. "Here, I say, young woman—You just look me in the eye." He pointed to his good one. "This eye." Marjolaine stood before him in confusion. It made her angry to feel confused. Why should she feel confused? "I—I have seen him once," she answered bravely.
"Have you, begad!—So that's what he was cruising about here for, was it?—But I'll teach him!"
Marjolaine was very angry indeed. "Sir Peter!" she flashed at him, "If you breathe it, I 'll never speak to you again!"
"D' ye think I 'll have him coming here—?"
"But he's not coming here!" cried Marjolaine; and with a meaning of her own: "Oh, don't you see he's not coming?—Swear you won't breathe a word to a living soul! Swear! Swear!"
"Damme!" cried the Admiral. "I must think that over. And as for you," he added, with humorous sternness, "you come and sit under the tree and I 'll talk to you like a Dutch uncle."
Marjolaine saw Mrs. Poskett at her window. It would not do for Sir Peter to talk to her like an uncle—Dutch or otherwise. "Sir Peter!" she cried, "Sempronius is going to jump!"
Sir Peter rushed to the cat again, and again found him sound asleep. He turned furiously towards Marjolaine, but Mrs. Poskett intercepted him. "Good morning, Sir Peter!"
Sir Peter looked up, where the widow was shaking the ribbons of her cap at him. "Morning, ma'am," he said, sulkily. "Your cat—"
"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Poskett, craning forward to see her pet. "Dear Sempronius!—Don't disturb him! He's so happy!"
"But—!"
"I 'm sure it's going to rain," the widow explained. "He always sits there when he feels rain coming; because the fish rise, and he loves watching them."
"Confounded nonsense," growled Sir Peter.
Mrs. Poskett closed her window, and Sir Peter was on the point of returning to Marjolaine and having it out with her, when Madame Lachesnais came out of her house. Of course that made all conversation with the girl impossible, and as he did not feel he could meet the mother, knowing what he now knew, there was nothing left for him but to salute her and beat a hasty retreat into his own house and think things over.
CHAPTER VII
SHOWING HOW HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
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Chapter VII headpiece
Engrossed in her own gentle melancholy Madame crossed slowly towards the river. She was sincerely distressed about Marjolaine. What could be the matter with the child? This question had haunted her all the week; but whenever she had tried to speak to her daughter, the latter had evaded her on one pretext or another. In vain Madame racked her brains. Marjolaine was not ill; yet she had no appetite; the colour had faded from her cheeks; the spring had gone out of her step; and the laughter had died from her lips. Madame remembered the time—long ago: twenty years ago and more—when she herself had looked and spoken and moved, just as Marjolaine did now; but there had been a very good reason for that. In Marjolaine's case there could be no reason. No one had crossed her young life—or, was she mistaken? That young man who had so suddenly appeared: who had so suddenly revived the most poignant memories of her own youth!—Was it conceivable that he and Marjolaine had met? had perhaps met frequently? It was not conceivable. Marjolaine was the soul of truth. Marjolaine had been perfectly happy until a few days ago. Marjolaine had not shown any signs of recognition when the young man stood there. And yet? Was it wise to be too sure? In her own case there had been secrecy, and, now she remembered, she had borne the secrecy unflinchingly; had shown a perfectly calm and happy exterior. The secrets of the young seem to them quite innocent: merely possessions of their own which they keep to themselves, which they cannot understand they are in duty bound to disclose to their elders. And, to be sure, her own father—she had lost her mother in early youth—had never tried to win her confidence. A great entomologist cannot be expected to allow his attention to be distracted by a girl's sentimental nonsense. But she—had she paid enough attention to her daughter? Had she not allowed herself to be lulled into false security by the remoteness of Pomander Walk? But if the young man—Jack Sayle, of all people in the world!—had won Marjolaine's heart, why, here were the beginnings of a bitter tragedy: her own tragedy all over again. It must be nipped in the bud. Mercilessly. She must be cruel to be kind. Could she be cruel to Marjolaine? Motherhood had its duties, however, and, now that this great fear was on her, she saw her duty plainly, and would do it.
She was interrupted in her meditations by the sound of weeping, and for the first time, she saw poor Marjolaine sitting under the tree, bending low, with her face in her hands, shaken with great sobs. She hurried across to the weeping girl, placed her arm very tenderly over her shoulders and gently called her by her name.
[image]"SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"
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"SHE PLACED HER ARM VERY TENDERLY OVER HER SHOULDERS AND GENTLY CALLED HER BY NAME"
The touch of her mother's arm, the sound of her mother's voice let loose the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms round her mother's waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat down beside her and drew her very close. "Chérie—my darling! What is the matter?"
Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed the tears from her eyes, as she answered—"Nothing, Maman. I think—it is so beautiful here!—So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a little on your heart."
There was a sad smile on Madame's face. As if you cried because the sun was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week? Cry, my darling, and tell me."
"There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs. "Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the river. "There was something; but—" and down went her head on her mother's breast—"there is nothing now."
Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!—I tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were parted."
"Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother's face, "that was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no longer exists. It has"—she made one of her quaint little gestures—"it has—evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her face.
Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then, there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young girl's heart? "Ah, chérie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists: it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you tell me."
Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and anxious to speak, she had nothing to say.
"Tell me," repeated Madame.
"I can't, Maman."
"Why not?"
"I cannot begin alone: I don't know how."
"Shall I help you, Marjolaine?"
"Can you?"
Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively.
"Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger, that young man—"
There was no need to go on. Marjolaine had already risen to her feet. Her thoughts were let loose: all the thoughts she had locked in her breast during the past week, the memories that had been tormenting her, the problems she had been struggling with. She saw Jack Sayle as if he were standing before her. "He stood over there, in the sun"—she spoke quietly but intensely—"and he looked at me, and I looked at him; and—" her voice was hushed, and although she addressed her mother she did not turn to her, but kept her eyes on the spot where Jack had stood—"Mother! what happened to me? I felt as if he and I had always known each other, and as if we were alone in the world. No! As if he were alone, and I were a part of him. And we spoke. Nothings. Things that didn't matter. Silly things; about his being thirsty, and what I could give him. But it was only our voices speaking. I know it was only my voice: it was not I. I was thinking of sunshine and music and flowers. And then we went into the Gazebo; and the foolish talk ran on! And all the time my heart was singing!—He told me his name; and my heart took it and wove music around it, and sang it! and sang it!" Her voice sank to an awed whisper. "And—Mother!—I seemed to step out of childhood suddenly, into—into what, Mother?—What was it?"
"Alas!" sighed Madame. The child's words had carried her back, so far, so far! Back to her own early youth. Just so had the day been transfigured for her. Just so the sunshine had taken on a new glamour. Just so her own heart had sung its hymns of rapture. Just so she had stepped across the threshold of childhood.
But Marjolaine continued. "When he went, I felt as if he had taken me with him: my heart and my mind. He said he was coming again—but he never came; and every day I have wandered about; looking for what he had taken; looking for my life!" she sank on her knees at her mother's feet. "He will never come again! He will never bring back what he has carried away!—Oh, mother, what is it?"
Her tears flowed freely now, but silently: tears of relief at having unburdened her heart. Madame looked down at her with such pity as only a mother can feel. "My darling! Is it so serious as that? God help us, poor blind things!" She remembered what she must have been doing while this fateful meeting took place. "While my child was going through the fire, I was matching silks for my embroidery!"
Marjolaine looked up at her with great, innocent eyes. "But it would have been the same if you had been there!"
"I suppose so," said Madame, sadly. "There is no barrier against it: not even a mother's arms."
"But what is it?" asked Marjolaine, wistfully.
Her mother looked at her searchingly, and Marjolaine met her gaze steadfastly, with her clear, truthful eyes. It was patent she did not indeed know what caused this new pain at her heart. Madame looked long. Her daughter seemed, in a way, suddenly to have become a stranger to her. This child was a child no longer, and her mother no longer held the first place in her heart. Yes! and if Marjolaine had suddenly leapt out of childhood, then she, the mother, must begin to face old age: she was the mother of a marriageable girl. She would fight against this while she could; not for unworthy or small motives, but to keep her daughter's companionship. Who was this Jack Sayle that he should come like a thief in the night and steal Marjolaine's youth, her happiness and her peace of mind, and tear the girl out of her mother's arms? "No," she said, at last, "I will not tell you. If I told you it would grow stronger; and it must not. It shall not. You must win yourself back, as I did. Oh! but sooner, and more completely!"
Marjolaine was amazed. Had her mother gone through what she was going through now? "As you did—?" she cried, in a voice which betrayed her astonishment.
Madame smiled sadly. "My dearest dear, the young never realise they are not beginning the world. Your story is mine."
With a cry of "Oh, mother!" Marjolaine nestled closer.
"Yes; but mine was longer and therefore left more pain in its track. Chérie, chérie, I am not telling you this to make light of your sorrow, but to show you I know what your pain is: to show you how to fight now, now, with all your might, to win yourself back." She paused a moment, to gather her thoughts and to gather strength. Then she continued very softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself, "It was years and years ago, in my father's garden—in the old vicarage garden—that I felt the sun and the song enter my heart. He and I were very young and very happy." Madame paused. "And then he rode away; and I never saw him again."
"Maman!" whispered Marjolaine, stroking her mother's cheek.
"We had lived in our dream a whole year; so my love—"
Marjolaine started at the word. "Love!" Was this love?—
But her mother did not notice her, and went on; "So my love had time to grow. Its roots were twined round my heart; and when he left me, and tore the roots out of me, I thought he had torn my heart out with them."
"Like me," said Marjolaine, below her breath.
Madame drew her closer, and whispered, "Would you like to know his name?"
There was something in her mother's voice which told Marjolaine her mother had some special reason for asking her. "Yes; what was it?" she asked, hushed, and very tenderly.
Her mother looked straight into her eyes and answered slowly, "Jack—Sayle."
Marjolaine recoiled in amazement. "Mother!—I don't understand!"
"The father of the boy you have seen!"
"How wonderful!"
"Much more wonderful things happen every day. It's much more wonderful that I can tell you this now: that I ever grew out of my love. For I loved him—ah, how deeply!"
There was a long silence.
Here was a curious thing. If any profane eye had lighted on the group—the young girl kneeling at Madame's feet in the green coolness of the elm; that profane eye would have got the impression that here were a mother and daughter closely linked in some common sorrow, and clinging to each other for mutual consolation. In one sense that impression would have been the right one; but in one sense only. Their thoughts were worlds apart. Madame was remembering the days when she was Lucy Pryor, the daughter of the vicar of Otford. The great Lord Otford was Lord of the Manor, and his son, the Honourable John Sayle, being a delicate lad, was studying desultorily with the Vicar. The Vicar was more interested in butterflies than in Greek roots, and the boy and girl spent most of their time in the great vicarage garden. Thus the lad had grown strong and well set up. He was gazetted into the Army, and sent to America, where the war had just broken out. There he stayed five years. Lucy treasured the dearest memories of her playfellow, and when he came back, a splendid lieutenant, it is hardly necessary to say that they fell seriously in love. Their love was patent to everyone except the vicar and the old Lord. When the latter discovered it, his fury was indescribable. He drove the vicar out of his living, and had him transferred to a miserable parish in the East-end of London, where there was n't a single butterfly; and he sent his son, who had retired from the army, on the Grand Tour. The lovers parted, vowing to be faithful; but young Sayle very soon forgot his vows in the excitement of travel. At Rome he met the Honourable Mabel Scott, daughter of Lord Polhousie, and, to cut a long story short, he married her, without a thought for poor Lucy, whom the shock nearly killed. Nor did he ever know the blow he had inflicted, nor ever hear from her, or of her, again. She was lost in the wilderness of London. A few years later he had succeeded his father, and was sent as Ambassador to Vienna. In the same year his son John—our Jack—was born, and his birth was closely followed by the mother's death.
Marjolaine, too, was thinking hard. All sorts of new ideas, new conceptions, were looming on her horizon. They came as angels, certainly, but angels with flaming swords. It seemed that great happiness could be inextricably interwoven with great misery, so that a simple human being could not tell where the one began and the other ended. It seemed that a man could say one thing and mean another: that he could look like the Archangel Michael and yet not mean what he said. It seemed that you could be wounded in all your finest and most sensitive nerves just for looking at a man. It seemed also, that your pride was of no use to you whatever, but deserted you when it was most needed, or, rather, turned against you, and helped to hurt you. This must be enquired into.
"Mère, chérie," she whispered.
"What, my darling?" asked Madame, coming out of her dream.
Marjolaine pressed her hand to her heart. There was an actual physical pain there, as if an iron band were crushing it. "Is this—is what I feel—love?"
"Ah!" cried Madame, "I have betrayed myself. I did not mean you to know. I am afraid it was going to be—love."
"Going to be! But it is! Or else, this ache? What is it?"
"Crush it now!" Madame was distressed. She would not allow Marjolaine's young life to be blighted as her own had been. "Crush it now! Fiercely! ruthlessly! and it will be nothing. You have only seen him once—"
"Does that make any difference?"
What could one answer to such a question? One could only ignore it. "You must be very brave; very determined; and put the thought of him away."
Marjolaine shook her head sadly. How could she put the thought of him away? It was in her. It filled her. It was she herself. And did she want to put it away? Would she put it away if she could? It seemed to her that if the thought were withdrawn now, she would be left a hollow husk of a thing, with no thought at all.
Madame saw she had gone too far too quickly. "Dear, I know. It took me a long time, because I had been happy so long; but at last, when your father came, I was able to put my hand in his, and look straight into his eyes."
Here was a new mystery for Marjolaine. So good and beautiful a woman as her mother could love twice, then?
"Mother," said she, with grave enquiry, "did you love my father as much as you had loved Jack?"
However good and blameless we may be, it is a very uncomfortable experience to be cross-examined by utter, single-minded innocence.
"Listen," said Madame, "life is long, and nature merciful. I recovered very slowly; but I tried to be brave; I tried to take an interest in the life around me: the sordid, sunless life of the very poor, so much sadder than my own. Then Jules Lachesnais came to live with us—with my father and me—in order to study the English language and our political institutions. A great friendship sprang up between us. When my father died, Jules urged me to marry him. I was utterly alone in the world; I felt a deep affection for him; and I consented."
She waited for Marjolaine to say something; but Marjolaine was silent.
"He took me to France, where you were born. We went through the horrors of the Revolution side by side. He played an active part in those horrible days; always on the side of justice and moderation. The aim of his life was to see his country under a constitutional government, such as he had learnt to admire during his stay in England. The excesses he was forced to witness disgusted him, and he resisted them with all his might." Madame was lost in her reminiscences. "Ah, yes! You were too young to know; but we all ran grave risks of falling victims to the guillotine. Your father hailed Napoleon as a deliverer; but when Napoleon began to usurp power, he foresaw the dawning tyranny; still more when Napoleon was made consul for life. He retired more and more from public affairs, thereby incurring the tyrant's anger and again endangering his life. When Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor your father protested publicly—think of the courage! He was expelled, and he died disappointed and heartbroken. He was a brave, true man, faithful to his ideals. I was very proud of him; very happy and contented. And Iamvery happy and contented now," she added defiantly,—"or I shall be, when I see you have won the victory!"
But Marjolaine was merciless. This was all very well, as far as her mother was concerned. "But what became of poor Jack?" she asked.
"Poor Jack!" Madame laughed bitterly. "Poor Jack had married some great lady!"
At once poor Jack had lost all Marjolaine's sympathy. She muttered between her teeth, "Caroline Thring."
"I tell you," protested Madame—and perhaps she protested just a shade too strongly—"I ceased to think of him. I forgot him."
Marjolaine's brow was puckered in thought. Could one forget? "But, mother," she said, very simply, "if you had forgotten him, why did you swoon when you heard his name?"
Down went the cloak of self-deception Madame had so carefully wrapped round herself. She took her daughter's face in both her hands and looked at her sadly. "Ah! my little girl is become a woman indeed! The innocence of the dove, and the guile of the serpent!—Well! Think over what I have told you. Come, now, chérie, you promise to fight?"
"Yes," said Marjolaine, without conviction.
"You promise to conquer?"
"I promise to try."
"At least you see there can be nothing between Lord Otford's son and my daughter?"
"Yes." Oh, what a hesitating yes!
Madame folded her in her arms. "Try to lighten someone else's sorrow," she said, kissing her tenderly, "then you will forget your own, and the roses will bloom in your cheeks again."
The Walk was beginning to show signs of life. The Eyesore came slouching back, and resumed his fishing with a lack-lustre eye. The early housekeeping having got itself done, the ladies of the Walk were showing themselves at their windows, tending their flowers or dusting their ornaments. Miss Ruth Pennymint came bustling out of her door, with needlework. She looked up at the overcast sky and held up the back of her hand.
"Ah," said Madame, catching sight of her. "Coming into the fresh air to work, Miss Ruth?"
Miss Ruth was evidently not in the best of tempers. "Of course it's going to rain," she snapped.
"Oh, not yet," said Madame, conciliatorily.
"Do you mind if I sew here?" said Miss Ruth. "It's so lonesome in the house, when Barbara's locked up with that precious bird!"
What could be the matter? The word "precious" was uttered in a manner which conveyed an exactly opposite meaning. Madame said soothingly, "That is so touching!" And Ruth snorted. There is no other word. She snorted. Madame and Marjolaine glanced at each other, and both moved towards the house. But Miss Ruth had no intention of being left alone. "Marjory!" she called. Marjolaine came back; and Madame went into Number Four alone.