On an afternoon in September, Harvey Rolfe spent half an hour at a certain London bookseller's, turning over books that dealt with the theory and practice of elementary education. Two or three of them he selected, and ordered to be sent to a lady at Gunnersbury. On his way out he came upon an acquaintance making a purchase in another department of the shop. It was some months since he had seen Cecil Morphew, who looked in indifferent health, and in his dress came near to shabbiness. They passed out together, Morphew carrying an enwrapped volume, which he gave Rolfe to understand was a birthday present—forher. The elder man resisted his inclination to joke, and asked how things were going on.
'Much the same as usual, except that her father is in very bad health. It's brutal, but I wish he would die.'
'Naturally.'
'That's what one's driven to, you see. And anyone but you, who know me, would set me down as a selfish, calculating beast. Can't help it. I had rather have her penniless.—Will you come in here with me? I want to buy some pyrogallic acid.'
In the street again, Morphew mentioned that he had taken up photography.
'It gives me something to do, and it takes me out into the open air. This beastly town is the ruin of me, in every way.—Come to my rooms for an hour, will you? I'll show you some attempts; I've only just tried my hand at developing. And it's a long time since we had a talk.'
They made for a Chelsea omnibus and mounted.
'I thought you were never in town at this time,' Morphew resumed. 'I want to get away, but can't afford it; devilish low-water with me. I must have a bicycle. With that and the camera I may just manage to live; often there seems little enough to live for.—Tripcony? Oh, Tripcony's a damned swindler; I've given him up. Speculation isn't quite so simple as I imagined. I made a couple of hundred, though—yes, and lost nearly three.'
The young man's laugh was less pleasant to hear than formerly. Altogether, Rolfe observed in him a decline, a loss of refinement as well as of vitality.
'Why don't you go into the country?' he said. 'Take a cottage and grow cabbages; dig for three hours a day. It would do you no end of good.'
'Of course it would. I wish I had the courage.'
'I'm going to spend the winter in Wales,' said Harvey. 'An out-of-the-world place in Carnarvonshire—mountains and sea. Come along with me, and get the mephitis blown out of you. You've got town disease, street-malaria, lodging-house fever.'
'By Jove, I'll think of it,' replied the other, with a strange look of eagerness. 'But I don't know whether I can. No, I can't be sure. But I'll try.'
'What holds you?'
'Well, I like to be near, you know, toher. And then—all sorts of difficulties——'
Morphew had his lodgings at present in a street near Chelsea Hospital, a poor-looking place, much inferior to those in which Rolfe had formerly seen him. His two rooms were at the top, and he had converted a garret into a dark chamber for his photographic amusement. Dirt and disorder made the sitting-room very uninviting; Rolfe looked about him, and wondered what principle of corruption was at work in the young man's life.
Morphew showed a new portrait of his betrothed, Henrietta Winter; a comely face, shadowed with pensiveness. 'Taken at Torquay; she sent it a day or two ago.—I've been thinking of giving her up. If I do, I shall do it brutally and savagely, to make it easy for her. I've spoilt her life, and I'm pretty sure I've ruined my own.'
He brought out a bottle of whisky and half filled two tumblers. His own measure he very slightly diluted, and drank it off at once.
'You're at a bad pass, my boy,' remarked Rolfe. 'What's wrong? Something more than usual, I know. Make a clean breast of it.'
Morphew continued to declare that he was only low-spirited from the longstanding causes, and, though Rolfe did not believe him, nothing more could at present be elicited. The talk turned to photography, but still had no life in it.
'I think you had better dine with me this evening,' said Harvey.
'Impossible. I wish I could. An engagement.'
The young man shuffled about, and after a struggle with embarrassment, aided by another tumbler of whisky, threw out something he wished to say.
'It's deuced hard to ask you, but—could you lend me some money?'
'Of course. How much? Why do you make such a sputter about it?'
'I've been making a fool of myself—got into difficulties. Will you let me have fifty pounds?'
'Yes, if you'll promise to clear at once out of this dust-bin, and in a month or so come into Wales.'
'You're an awfully good fellow, Rolfe,—and I'm a damned fool. I promise! I will! I'll get out of it, and then I'll think about breaking with that girl. Better for both of us—but you shall advise me.— I'll tell you everything some day. I can't now. I'm too ashamed of myself.'
When he got home, Harvey wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and posted it at once.
Not many days after, there came to him a letter from Mrs. Frothingham. With this lady he had held no communication since the catastrophe of last November; knowing not how to address her without giving more pain than his sympathy could counterbalance, he remained silent. She wrote from the neighbourhood of Swiss Cottage, where she had taken a flat; it was her wish, if possible, to see him 'on a matter of business', and she requested that he would make an appointment. Much wondering in what business of Mrs. Frothingham's he could be concerned, Harvey named his time, and went to pay the call. He ascended many stairs, and was conducted by a neat servant-maid into a pleasant little drawing-room, where Mrs. Frothingham rose to receive him. She searched his face, as if to discern the feeling with which he regarded her, and her timid smile of reassurance did not lack its pathos.
'Mr. Rolfe, it seems years since I saw you.'
She was aged a little, and her voice fell in broken notes, an unhappy contrast to the gay, confident chirping of less than twelve months ago.
'I have only been settled here for a week. I thought of leaving London altogether, but, after all, I had to come backwards and forwards so often,—it was better to have a home here, and this little flat will just suit me, I think.'
She seemed desirous of drawing attention to its modest proportions.
'I really don't need a house, and lodgings are so wretched. These flats are a great blessing—don't you think? I shall manage here with one servant, only one.'
Rolfe struggled with the difficulty of not knowing what to say. There was nothing for it but to discourse as innocently as might be on the advantages of flats, their increasing popularity, and the special charms of this particular situation. Mrs. Frothingham eagerly agreed with everything, and did her best to allow no moment of silence.
'You have heard from Miss Frothingham, I think?' she presently let fall, with a return of anxiety.
'Not very long ago. From Leipzig.'
'Yes. Yes.—I don't know whether she will stay there. You know she is thinking of taking up music professionally?—Yes. Yes.—I do so hope she will find it possible, but of course that kind of career is so very uncertain. I'm not sure that I shouldn't be glad if she turned to something else.'
The widow was growing nervous and self-contradictory. With a quick movement of her hands, she suddenly resumed in another tone.
'Mr. Rolfe, I do so wish you would let me speak to you in confidence. I want to ask your help in a most delicate matter. Not, of course, about my step-daughter, though I shall have to mention her. It is something quite personal to myself. If I could hope that you wouldn't think it tiresome—I have a special reason for appealing to you.'
He would gladly, said Harvey, be of any use he could.
'I want to speak to you about painful things,' pursued his hostess, with an animation and emphasis which made her more like the lady of Fitzjohn Avenue. 'You know everything—except my own position, and that is what I wish to explain to you. I won't go into details. I will only say that a few years ago my husband made over to me a large sum of money—I had none of my own—and that it still belongs to me. I say belongs to me; but there is my trouble. I fear I have no right whatever to call it mine. And there are people who have suffered such dreadful losses. Some of them you know. There was a family named Abbott. I wanted to ask you about them. Poor Mr. Abbott—I remember reading——'
She closed her eyes for an instant, and the look upon her face told that this was no affectation of an anguished memory.
'It was accident,' Rolfe hastened to say. 'The jury found it accidental death.'
'But there was the loss—I read it all. He had lost everything. Do tell me what became of his family. Someone told me they were friends of yours.'
'Happily they had no children. There was a small life-insurance. Mrs Abbott used to be a teacher, and she is going to take that up again.'
'Poor thing! Is she quite young?'
'Oh, about thirty, I should say.'
'Will she go into a school?'
'No. Private pupils at her own house. She has plenty of courage, and will do fairly well, I think.'
'Still, it is shocking that she should have lost all—her husband, too, just at that dreadful time. This is what I wanted to say, Mr. Rolfe. Do you think it would be possible to ask her to accept something——? I do so feel,' she hurried on, 'that I ought to make some sort of restitution—what I can—to those who lost everything. I am told that things are not quite hopeless; something may be recovered out of the wreck some day. But it will be such a long time, and meanwhile people are suffering so. And here am I left in comfort—more than comfort. It isn't right; I couldn't rest till I did something. I am glad to say that I have been able to help a little here and there, but only the kind of people whom it's easy to help. A case like Mrs. Abbott's is far worse, yet there's such a difficulty in doing anything; one might only give offence. I'm sure my name must be hateful to her—as it is to so many.'
Rolfe listened with a secret surprise. He had never thought ill of Mrs Frothingham; but, on the other hand, had never attributed to her any save superficial qualities, a lightsome temper, pleasure in hospitality, an easy good nature towards all the people of her acquaintance. He would not have supposed her capable of substantial sacrifices; least of all, on behalf of strangers and inspired by a principle. She spoke with the simplest sincerity; it was impossible to suspect her motives. The careless liking with which he had always regarded her was now infused with respect; he became gravely attentive, and answered in a softer voice.
'She was embittered at first, but is overcoming it. To tell you the truth, I think she will benefit by this trial. I don't like the words that are so often used in cant; I don't believe that misery does any good to most people—indeed, I know very well that it generally does harm. But Mrs. Abbott seems to be an exception; she has a good deal of character; and there were circumstances—well, I will only say that she faces the change in her life very bravely.'
'I do wish I knew her. But I daren't ask that. It's too much to expect that she could bear to see me and listen to what I have to say.'
'The less she's reminded of the past the better, I think.'
'But would it not be possible to do something? I am told that the sum was about fifteen hundred pounds. The whole of that I couldn't restore; but half of it—I could afford so much. Could I offer to do so—not directly, in my own name, but through you?'
Harvey reflected, his head and body bent forward, his hands folded together. In the flat beneath, someone was jingling operetta on a piano not quite in tune; the pertinacious vivacity of the airs interfered with Harvey's desire to view things seriously. He had begun to wonder how large a capital Mrs. Frothingham had at her command. Was it not probable that she could as easily bestow fifteen hundred pounds as the half of that sum? But the question was unworthy. If in truth she had set herself to undo as much as possible of the wrong perpetrated by her husband, Mrs. Frothingham might well limit her benefactions, be her fortune what it might.
'I will do whatever you desire,' he said, with deliberation. 'I cannot answer for Mrs. Abbott, but, if you wish it, she shall know what you have in mind.'
'I do wish it,' replied the lady earnestly. 'I beg you to put this before her, and with all the persuasion you can use. I should be very, very glad if she would allow me to free my conscience from a little of this burden. Only that I dare not speak of it, I would try to convince you that I am doing what my dear husband himself would have wished. You can't believe it; no one will ever believe it; even Alma, I am afraid—and that is so cruel, so dreadful; but he did not mean to wrong people in this way. It wasn't in his nature. Who knew him better than I, or so well? I know—if he could come back to us——'
Her voice broke. The piano below jingled more vivaciously than ever, and a sound of shrill laughter pierced through the notes. Afraid to sit silent, lest he should seem unsympathetic and sceptical, Rolfe murmured a few harmless phrases, tending to nervous incoherence.
'I am thinking so much about Alma,' pursued the widow, recovering self-command. 'I am so uncertain about my duty to her. Of her own, she has nothing; but I know, of course, that her father wished her to share in what he gave me. It is strange, Mr. Rolfe, that I should be talking to you as if you were a relative—as if I had a right to trouble you with these things. But if you knew how few people I dare speak to. Wasn't it so much better for her to lead a very quiet life? And so I gave her only a little money, only enough to live upon in the simplest way. I hoped she would get tired of being among strangers, and come back. And now I fear she thinks I have behaved meanly and selfishly. And we were always so kindly disposed to each other, such thorough friends; never a word that mightn't have passed between a mother and her own child.'
'I gathered from her letter,' interposed Harvey, 'that she was well contented and working hard at her music.'
'Do you think so? I began to doubt—she wrote in low spirits. Of course, one can't say whether she would succeed as a violinist. Oh, I don't like to think of it! I must tell you that I haven't said a word to her yet of what I am doing; I mean, about the money. I know I ought to considerheras much as other people. Poor girl, who has suffered more, and in so many ways? But I think of what I keep for myself as hers. I was not brought up in luxury, Mr. Rolfe. It wouldn't seem to me hard to live on a very little. But in this, too, I must consider Alma. I daren't lose all my acquaintances. I must keep a home for Alma, and a home she wouldn't feel ashamed of. Here, you see, she could have her friends. I have thought of going to Leipzig; but I had so much rather she came to London—if only for us just to talk and understand each other.'
Harvey preserved the gravest demeanour. Of Alma he would not permit himself to speak, save in answer to a direct question; and that was not long in coming.
'I am sure you think I should be quite open with her?'
'That would seem to me the best.'
'Yes; she shall know all my thoughts. But with regard to Mrs. Abbott, I know so well what she would say. I beg you to do me that kindness, Mr Rolfe.'
'I will write to Mrs. Abbott at once.'
The interview was at an end; neither had anything more to say. They parted with looks of much mutual kindliness, Harvey having promised to make another call when Mrs. Abbott's reply had reached him.
After exchanging letters with Mrs. Abbott, Harvey went over to see her; for the sake of both persons concerned, he resolved to leave no possibility of misunderstanding. A few days passed in discussions and reflections, then, at the customary hour for paying calls, he again ascended the many stairs to Mrs. Frothingham's flat. It had rained all day, and in this weather there seemed a certainty that the lady would be at home. But, as he approached the door, Harvey heard a sound from within which discomposed him. Who, save one person, was likely to be playing on the violin in these rooms? He paused, cast about him a glance of indecision, and finally pressed the electric bell.
Mrs. Frothingham was not at home. She might return very shortly.
'Is—Miss Frothingham at home?'
The servant did not straightway admit him, but took his name. On his entering the drawing-room, three figures appeared before him. He saw Alma; he recognised Miss Leach; the third lady was named to him as Miss Leach's sister.
'You knew I was in London?' Alma remarked rather than inquired.
'I had no idea of it—until I heard your violin.'
'My violin, but not my playing. It was Miss Leach.'
From the first word—her 'Ah, how d'you do' as he entered—Alma's tone and manner appeared to him forced, odd, unlike anything he remembered of her. In correcting him, she gave a hard, short laugh, glancing at Dora Leach in a way verging upon the ill-bred. Her look had nothing amiable, though she continuously smiled, and when she invited the visitor to be seated, it was with off-hand familiarity very unflattering to his ear.
'You came to see Mamma, of course. I dare say she won't be long. She had to go through the rain on business with someone or other—perhaps you know. Have you been in London all the summer? Oh no, I remember you told me you had been somewhere in France; on the Loire, wasn't it?'
Rolfe dropped a careless affirmative. His temper prompted him to ask whether Miss Frothingham knew the difference between the Loire and the Garonne; but on the whole he was more puzzled than offended. What had come over this young woman? Outwardly she was not much altered—a little thinner in the face, perhaps; her eyes seeming a trifle darker and deeper set; but in the point of demeanour she had appreciably suffered. Her bearing and mode of speech were of that kind which, in a man, would be called devil-may-care. Was it a result of student-life? If her stinted allowance had already produced effects such as this, Mrs Frothingham was justified in uneasiness.
He turned to Miss Leach, and with her talked exclusively for some minutes. As soon as civility permitted, he would rise and make his escape. Alma, the while, chatted with the younger sister, whom she addressed as 'Gerda'. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Frothingham came in, wearing her out-of-doors and gave him cordial welcome, though in few and nervous costume; she fixed her eyes on Rolfe with a peculiar intensity, words.
'I am no longer alone, you see.' She threw a swift side-glance at Alma. 'It is a great pleasure.'
'Does it rain still, Mamma?' asked Alma in a high voice.
'Not just now, my dear; but it's very disagreeable.'
'Then I'll walk with you to the station.' She addressed the sisters. 'Dora and Gerda can't stay; they have an appointment at five o'clock. They'll come again in a day or two.'
After the leave-takings, and when Alma, with a remark that she would not be long, had closed the door behind her, Mrs. Frothingham seated herself and began to draw off her gloves. The bonnet and cloak she was wearing, though handsome and in the mode, made her look older than at Rolfe's last visit. She was now a middle-aged woman, with emphasis on the qualifying term; in home dress she still asserted her sex, grace of figure and freshness of complexion prevailing over years and sorrows. At this moment, moreover, weariness, and perhaps worry, appeared in her countenance.
'Thank you so much for coming,' she said quietly. 'You must have been surprised when you saw——'
'I was, indeed.'
'And my surprise was still greater, when, without any warning, Alma walked into the room two days ago. But I was so glad, so very glad.'
She breathed a little sigh, looking round.
'Hasn't Alma given her friends any tea? I must ring—Thank you.—Oh, the wretched, wretched day! I seem to notice the weather so much more than I used to. Does it affect you at all?'
Not till the tea-tray was brought in, and she had sipped from her cup, did Mrs. Frothingham lay aside these commonplaces. With abrupt gravity, and in a subdued voice, she at length inquired the result of Rolfe's delicate mission.
'I think,' he replied, 'that I made known your wish as clearly and urgently as possible. I have seen Mrs. Abbott, and written to her twice. It will be best, perhaps, if I ask you to read her final letter. I have her permission to show it to you.'
He drew the letter from its envelope, and with a nervous hand Mrs Frothingham took it for perusal. Whilst she was thus occupied, Rolfe averted his eyes; when he knew that she had read to the end, he looked at her. She had again sighed, and Harvey could not help imagining it an involuntary signal of relief.
'I am very glad to have read this, Mr. Rolfe. If you had merely told me that Mrs. Abbott refused, I should have felt nothing but pain. As it is, I understand that shecouldonly refuse, and I am most grateful for all she says about me. I regret more than ever that I don't know her.'
As she handed the letter back, it shook like a blown leaf. She was pale, and spoke with effort. But in a few moments, when conversation was resumed, her tone took a lightness and freedom which confirmed Rolfe's impression that she had escaped from a great embarrassment; and this surmise he inevitably connected with Alma's display of strange ill-humour.
Not another word passed on the subject. With frequent glances towards the door, Mrs. Frothingham again talked commonplace. Harvey, eager to get away, soon rose.
'Oh, you are not going? Alma will be back in a moment.'
And as her step-mother spoke, the young lady reappeared.
'Why didn't you give your friends tea, dear?'
'I forgot all about it. That comes of living alone. Dora has composed a gavotte, Mamma. She was playing it when Mr. Rolfe came. It's capital! Is Mr. Rolfe going?'
Harvey murmured his peremptory resolve. Mrs. Frothingham, rising, said that she was almost always at home in the afternoon; that it would always give her so much pleasure——
'You remain in England?' asked Harvey, barely touching the hand which Alma cavalierly offered.
'I really don't know. Perhaps I ought to, just to look after Mamma.'
Mrs. Frothingham uttered a little exclamation, and tried to laugh. On the instant, Harvey withdrew.
By the evening's post on the following day he was surprised to receive a letter addressed in Alma's unmistakable hand. The contents did not allay his wonder.
DEAR MR ROLFE,
I am sure you will not mind if I use the privilege of a fairly long acquaintance and speak plainly about something that I regard as important. I wish to say that I am quite old enough, and feel quite competent, to direct the course of my own life. It is very kind of you, indeed, to take an interest in what I do and what I hope to do, and I am sure Mamma will be fittingly grateful for any advice you may have offered with regard to me. But I feel obliged to say quite distinctly that I must manage my own affairs. Pray excuse this freedom, and believe me, yours truly,
He gasped, and with wide eyes read the missive again and again. As soon as his nerves were quieted, he sat down and replied thus:——
DEAR MISS FROTHINGHAM,
Your frankness can only be deemed a compliment. It is perhaps a triviality on my part, but I feel prompted to say that I have at no time discussed your position or prospects with Mrs. Frothingham, and that I have neither offered advice on the subject nor have been requested to do so. If this statement should appear to you at all germane to the matter, I beg you will take it into consideration.—And I am, yours truly,
HARVEY RADCLIFFE ROLFE
This reply despatched, Harvey congratulated himself on being quits with Miss Frothingham. Her letter, however amusing, was deliberate impertinence; to have answered it in a serious tone would have been to encourage ill-mannered conceit which merited nothing but a snub.
But what had excited her anger? Had Mrs. Frothingham been guilty of some indiscretion, or was it merely the result of hotheaded surmises and suspicions on the girl's part? Plainly, Alma had returned to England in no amiable mood; in all probability she resented her step-mother's behaviour, now that it had been explained to her; there had arisen 'unpleasantness' on the old, the eternal subject—money. Ignoble enough; but was it a new thing for him to discern ignoble possibilities in Alma's nature?
Nevertheless, his thoughts were constantly occupied with the girl. Her image haunted him; all his manhood was subdued and mocked by her scornful witchery. From the infinitudes of reverie, her eyes drew near and gazed upon him—eyes gleaming with mischief, keen with curiosity; a look now supercilious, now softly submissive; all the varieties of expression caught in susceptible moments, and stored by a too faithful memory. Her hair, her lips, her neck, grew present to him, and lured his fancy with a wanton seduction. In self-defence—pathetic stratagem of intellectual man at issue with the flesh—he fell back upon the idealism which ever strives to endow a fair woman with a beautiful soul; he endeavoured to forget her body in contemplation of the spiritual excellencies that might lurk behind it. To depreciate her was simpler, and had generally been his wont; but subjugation had reached another stage in him. He summoned all possible pleadings on the girl's behalf: her talents, her youth, her grievous trials. Devotion to classical music cannot but argue a certain loftiness of mind; it might, in truth, be somehow akin to 'religion'. Remembering his own follies and vices at the age of four-and-twenty, was it not reason, no less than charity, to see in Alma the hope of future good? Nay, if it came to that, did she not embody infinitely more virtue, in every sense of the word, than he at the same age?
One must be just to women, and, however paltry the causes, do honour to the cleanliness of their life. Nothing had suggested to him that Alma was unworthy of everyday respect. Even when ill-mannered, she did not lose her sexual dignity. And after all she had undergone, there would have been excuse enough for decline of character, to say nothing of a lapse from the articles of good breeding. This letter of hers, what did it signify but the revolt of a spirit of independence, irritated by all manner of sufferings, great and small? Ought he not to have replied in other terms? Was it worthy of him—man of the world, with passions, combats, experience multiform, assimilated in his long, slow growth—to set his sarcasm against a girl's unhappiness?
He was vexed with himself. He had not behaved as a gentleman. And how many a time, in how many situations, had he incurred this form of self-reproach!
When a week went by without anything more from Alma, Harvey ceased to trouble. As the fates directed, so be it. He began to pack the books which he would take with him into Wales.
One day he found himself at Kensington High Street, waiting for a City train. In idleness, he watched the people who alighted from carriages on the opposite side of the platform, and among them he saw Alma. On her way towards the stairs she was obliged to pass him; he kept his position, and only looked into her face when she came quite near. She bent her head with a half-smile, stopped, and spoke in a low voice, without sign of embarrassment.
'I was quite wrong. I found it out soon after I had written, and I have wanted to beg your pardon.'
'It is my part to do that,' Harvey replied. 'I ought not to have answered as I did.'
'Perhaps not—all things considered. I'm rather in a hurry. Good-morning!'
As a second thought, she offered her hand. Harvey watched her trip up the stairs.
Next morning he had a letter from her. 'Dear Mr. Rolfe,' she wrote, 'did you let Mamma know of my hasty and foolish behaviour? If not—and I very much hope you didn't—please not to reply to this, but let us see you on Wednesday afternoon, just in the ordinary way. If Mammahasbeen told, still don't trouble to write, and in that case I dare say you will not care to come. If you are engaged this Wednesday, perhaps you could come next.' And she signed herself his sincerely.
He did not reply, and Wednesday saw him climbing once more to the little flat; ashamed of being here, yet unable to see how he could have avoided it, except by leaving London. For that escape he had no longer much mind. Quite consciously, and with uneasiness which was now taking a new form, he had yielded to Alma's fascination. However contemptible and unaccountable, this was the state of things with him, and, as he waited for the door to be opened, it made him feel more awkward, more foolish, than for many a long year.
Mrs. Frothingham and her step-daughter were sitting alone, the elder lady occupied with fancy-work, at her feet a basket of many-coloured silks, and the younger holding a book; nothing could have been quieter or more home-like. No sooner had he entered than he overcame all restraint, all misgiving; there was nothing here today but peace and good feeling, gentle voices and quiet amiability. Whatever shadow had arisen between the two ladies must have passed utterly away; they spoke to each other with natural kindness, and each had a tranquil countenance.
Alma began at once to talk of their common friends, the Carnabys, asking whether Rolfe knew that they were in Australia.
'I knew they had decided to go,' he answered. 'But I haven't heard for at least two months.'
'Oh, then I can give you all the news; I had a letter yesterday. When Mrs. Carnaby wrote, they had spent a fortnight at Melbourne, and were going on to Brisbane. Mr. Carnaby is going to do something in Queensland—something about mines. I'll read you that part.'
The letter lay in the book she was holding. Sibyl wrote indefinitely, but Harvey was able to gather that the mining engineer, Dando, had persuaded Carnaby to take an active interest in his projects. Discussion on speculative enterprises did not recommend itself to the present company, and Rolfe could only express a hope that his friend had at last found a pursuit in which he could interest himself.
'But fancy Sibyl at such places!' exclaimed Alma, with amusement. 'How curious I shall be to see her when she comes back! Before she left England, I'm sure she hadn't the least idea in what part of Australia Brisbane was, or Melbourne either. I didn't know myself; had to look at a map. You'll think that a shameful confession, Mr. Rolfe.'
'My own ideas of Australian geography are vague enough.'
'Oh, but haven't you been there?'
'Not to any of the new countries; I don't care about them. A defect, I admit. The future of England is beyond seas. I would have children taught all about the Colonies before bothering them with histories of Greece and Rome. I wish I had gone out there myself as a boy, and grown up a sheep-farmer.'
Alma laughed.
'That's one of the things you say just to puzzle people. It contradicts all sorts of things I've heard you say at other times.—Doyouthink, Mamma, that Mr. Rolfe missed his vocation when he didn't become a sheep-farmer?'
Mrs. Frothingham gently shook her head. No trace of nervousness appeared in her today; manipulating the coloured silks, she only now and then put in a quiet word, but followed the talk with interest.
'But I quite thought you had been to Australia,' Alma resumed. 'You see, it's very theoretical, your admiration of the new countries. And I believe you would rather die at once in England than go to live in any such part of the world.'
'Weakness of mind, that's all.'
'Still, you admit it. That's something gained. You always smile at other people's confessions, and keep your own mind mysterious.'
'Mysterious? I always thought one of my faults was over-frankness.'
'That only shows how little we know ourselves.'
Harvey was reflecting on the incompleteness of his knowledge of Alma. Intentionally or not, she appeared to him at this moment in a perfectly new light; he could not have pictured her so simple of manner, so direct, so placid. Trouble seemed to have given her a holiday, and at the same time to have released her from self-consciousness.
'But you have never told us,' she went on, 'about your wanderings in France this summer. English people don't go much to that part, do they?'
'No. I happened to read a book about it. It's the old fighting-ground of French and English—interesting to any one pedantic enough to care for such things.'
'But not to people born to be sheep-farmers. And you had a serious illness.—Did Mr. Rolfe tell you, Mamma dear, that he nearly died at some miserable roadside inn?'
Mrs. Frothingham looked startled, and declared she knew nothing of it. Harvey, obliged to narrate, did so in the fewest possible words, and dismissed the matter.
'I suppose you have had many such experiences,' said Alma. 'And when do you start on your next travels?'
'I have nothing in view. I half thought of going for the winter to a place in North Wales—Carnarvonshire, on the outer sea.'
The ladies begged for more information, and he related how, on a ramble with a friend last spring (it was Basil Morton), he had come upon this still little town between the mountains and the shore, amid a country shining with yellow gorse, hills clothed with larch, heathery moorland, ferny lanes, and wild heights where the wind roars on crag or cairn.
'No railway within seven miles. Just the place for a pedant to escape to, and live there through the winter with his musty books.'
'But it must be equally delightful for people who are not pedants!' exclaimed Alma.
'In spring or summer, no doubt, though even then the civilised person would probably find it dull.'
'That's your favourite affectation again. I'm sure it's nothing but affectation when you speak scornfully of civilised people.'
'Scornfully I hope I never do.'
'Really, Mamma,' said Alma, with a laugh, 'Mr. Rolfe is in his very mildest humour today. We mustn't expect any reproofs for our good. He will tell us presently that we are patterns of all the virtues.'
Mrs. Frothingham spoke in a graver strain.
'But I'm sure it is possible to be too civilised—to want too many comforts, and become a slave to them. Since I have been living here, Mr Rolfe, you can't think how I have got to enjoy the simplicity of this kind of life. Everything is so easy; things go so smoothly. Just one servant, who can't make mistakes, because there's next to nothing to do. No wonder people are taking to flats.'
'And is that what you mean by over-civilisation?' Alma asked of Rolfe.
'I didn't say anything about it. But I should think many people in large and troublesome houses would agree with Mrs. Frothingham. It's easy to imagine a time when such burdens won't be tolerated. Our misfortune is, of course, that we are not civilised enough.'
'Not enough to give up fashionable nonsense. I agree with that. We're wretched slaves, most of us.'
It was the first sentence Alma had spoken in a tone that Rolfe recognised. For a moment her face lost its placid smile, and Harvey hoped that she would say more to the same purpose; but she was silent.
'I'm sure,' remarked Mrs. Frothingham, with feeling, 'that most happiness is found in simple homes.'
'Can we be simple by wishing it?' asked Alma. 'Don't you think we have to be born to simplicity?'
'I'm not sure that I know what you mean by the word,' said Harvey.
'I'm not sure that I know myself. Mamma meant poverty, I think. But there may be a simple life without poverty, I should say. I'm thinking of disregard for other people's foolish opinions; living just as you feel most at ease—not torturing yourself because it's the custom.'
'That's just what requires courage,' Rolfe remarked.
'Yes; I suppose it does. One knows people who live in misery just because they daren't be comfortable; keeping up houses and things they can't afford, when, if they only considered themselves, their income would be quite enough for everything they really want. If you come to think of it, that's too foolish for belief.'
Harvey felt that the topic was growing dangerous. He said nothing, but wished to have more of Alma's views in this direction. They seemed to strike her freshly; perhaps she had never thought of the matter in this way before.
'That's what I meant,' she continued, 'when I said you must be born to simplicity. I should think no one ever gave up fashionable extravagance just because they saw it to be foolish. People haven't the strength of mind. I dare say,' she added, with a bright look, 'anyone whowasstrong enough to do that kind of thing would be admired and envied.'
'By whom?' Rolfe asked.
'Oh, by their acquaintances who were still slaves.'
'I don't know. Admiration and envy are not commonly excited by merely reasonable behaviour.'
'But this would be something more than merely reasonable. It would be the beginning of a revolution.'
'My dear,' remarked Mrs. Frothingham, smiling sadly, 'people would never believe that it didn't mean loss of money.'
'They might be made to believe it. It would depend entirely on the persons, of course.'
Alma seemed to weary of the speculation, and to throw it aside. Harvey noticed a shadow on her face again, which this time did not pass quickly.
He was so comfortable in his chair, the ladies seemed so entirely at leisure, such a noiseless calm brooded about them, unbroken by any new arrival, that two hours went by insensibly, and with lingering reluctance the visitor found it time to take his leave. On reviewing the afternoon, Harvey concluded that it was probably as void of meaning as of event. Alma, on friendly terms once more with her step-mother, felt for the moment amiably disposed towards everyone, himself included; this idle good humour and insignificant talk was meant, no doubt, for an apology, all he had to expect. It implied, of course, thorough indifference towards him as an individual. As a member of their shrunken circle, he was worth retaining. Having convinced herself of his innocence of undue pretensions, Alma would, as the children say, be friends again, and everything should go smoothly.
He lived through a week of the wretchedest indecision, and at the end of it, when Wednesday afternoon came round, was again climbing the many stairs to the Frothinghams' flat; even more nervous than last time, much more ashamed of himself, and utterly doubtful as to his reception. The maid admitted him without remark, and showed him into an empty room. When he had waited for five minutes, staring at objects he did not see, Alma entered.
'Mamma went out to lunch,' she said, languidly shaking hands with him, 'and hasn't come back yet.'
No greeting could have conveyed less encouragement. She seated herself with a lifeless movement, looked at him, and smiled as if discharging a duty.
'I thought'—he blundered into speech—'that Wednesday was probably your regular afternoon.'
'There is nothing regular yet. We haven't arranged our life. We are glad to see our friends whenever they come.—Pray sit down.'
He did so, resolving to stay for a few minutes only. In the silence that followed, their eyes met, and, as though it were too much trouble to avert her look, Alma continued to regard him. She smiled again, and with more meaning.
'So you have quite forgiven me?' fell from her lips, just when Harvey was about to speak.
'As I told you at the station, I feel that there is more fault on my side. You wrote under such a strange misconception, and I ought to have patiently explained myself.'
'Oh no! You were quite right in treating me sharply. I don't quite remember what I said, but I know it must have been outrageous. After that, I did what I ought to have done before, just had a talk with Mamma.'
'Then you took it for granted, without any evidence, that I came here as a meddler or busybody?'
His voice was perfectly good-humoured, and Alma answered in the same tone.
'Ithoughtthere was evidence. Mamma had been talking about her affairs, and mentioned that she had consulted you about something—Oh, about Mrs. Abbott.'
'Very logical, I must say,' remarked Rolfe, laughing.
'I don't think logic is my strong point.'
She sat far back in the easy chair, her head supported, her hands resting upon the chair arms. The languor which she hardly made an effort to overcome began to invade her companion, like an influence from the air; he gazed at her, perceiving a new beauty in the half-upturned face, a new seductiveness in the slim, abandoned body. A dress of grey silk, trimmed with black, refined the ivory whiteness of her flesh; its faint rustling when she moved affected Harvey with a delicious thrill.
'There's no reason, now,' she continued, 'why we shouldn't talk about it—I mean, the things you discussed with Mamma. You imagine, I dare say, that I selfishly objected to what she was doing. Nothing of the kind. I didn't quite see why she had kept it from me, that was all. It was as if she felt afraid of my greediness. But I'm not greedy; I don't think I'm more selfish than ordinary people. And I think Mamma is doing exactly what she ought; I'm very glad she felt about things in that way.'
Harvey nodded, and spoke in a subdued voice.
'I was only consulted about one person, whom I happened to know.'
'Yes—Mrs. Abbott.'
Her eyes were again fixed upon him, and he read their curiosity. Just as he was about to speak, the servant appeared with tea. Alma slowly raised herself, and, whilst she plied the office of hostess, Harvey got rid of the foolish hat and stick that encumbered him. He had now no intention of hurrying away.
As if by natural necessity, they talked of nothing in particular whilst tea was sipped. Harvey still held his cup, when at the outer door sounded a rat-tat-tat, causing him silently to execrate the intruder, whoever it might be. Unheeding, and as if she had not heard, Alma chatted of trifles. Harvey's ear detected movements without, but no one entered; in a minute or two, he again breathed freely.
'Mrs. Abbott——'
Alma just dropped the name, as if beginning a remark, but lapsed into silence.
'Shall I tell you all about her?' said Rolfe. 'Her husband's death left her in great difficulties; she had hardly anything. A friend of hers, a Mrs. Langland, who lives at Gunnersbury, was very kind and helpful. They talked things over, and Mrs. Abbott decided to take a house at Gunnersbury, and teach children;—she was a teacher before her marriage.'
'No children of her own?'
'No. One died. But unfortunately she has the care of two, whose mother—a cousin of hers—is dead, and whose father has run away.'
'Run away?'
'Literally. Left the children behind in a lodging-house garret to starve, or go to the workhouse, or anything else. A spirited man; independent, you see; no foolish prejudices.'
'And Mrs. Abbott has to support them?'
'No one else could take them. They live with her.'
'You didn't mention that to Mamma.'
'No. I thought it needless.'
The silence that followed was embarrassing to Harvey. He broke it by abruptly changing the subject.
'Have you practised long today?'
'No,' was the absent reply.
'I thought you looked rather tired, as if you had been working too hard.'
'Oh, I don't work too hard,' said Alma impatiently.
'Forgive me. I remember that it is a forbidden subject.'
'Not at all. You may askmeanything you like about myself. I'm not working particularly hard just now; thinking a good deal, though. Suppose you let me have your thoughts on the same subject. No harm. But I dare say I know them, without your telling me.'
'I hardly think you do,' said Rolfe, regarding her steadily. 'At all events'—his voice faltered a little—'I'm afraid you don't.'
'Afraid? Oh'—she laughed—'don't be afraid. I have plenty of courage, and quite enough obstinacy. It rather does me good when people show they have no faith in me.'
'You didn't understand,' murmured Harvey.
'Then make me understand,' she exclaimed nervously, moving in the chair as if about to stand up, but remaining seated and bent forward, her eyes fixed upon him in a sort of good-humoured challenge. 'I believe I know what you mean, all the time. You didn't discuss me with Mamma, as I suspected, but you think about me just as she does.—No, let me go on, then you shall confess I was right. You have no faith in my powers, to begin with. It seems to you very unlikely that an everyday sort of girl, whom you have met in society and know all about, should develop into a great artist. No faith—that's the first thing. Then you are so kind as to have fears for me—yes, it was your own word. You think that you know the world, whilst I am ignorant of it, and that it's a sort of duty to offer warnings.'
Harvey's all but angry expression, as he listened and fidgeted, suddenly stopped her.
'Well! Can you deny that these things are in your mind?'
'They are not in my mind at this moment, that's quite certain,' said Harvey bluntly.
'Then, what is?'
'Something it isn't easy to say, when you insist on quarrelling with me. Why do you use this tone? Do I strike you as a pedagogue, a preacher—something of that sort?'
His energy in part subdued her. She smiled uneasily.
'No. I don't see you in that light.'
'So much the better. I wanted to appear to you simply a man, and one who has—perhaps—the misfortune to see inyouonly a very beautiful and a very desirable woman.'
Alma sat motionless. Her smile had passed, vanishing in a swift gleam of pleasure which left her countenance bright, though grave. In the same moment there sounded again a rat-tat at the outer door. Through his whirling senses, Harvey was aware of the threatened interruption, and all but cursed aloud. That Alma had the same expectation appeared in her moving so as to assume a more ordinary attitude; but she uttered the word that had risen to her lips.
'The misfortune, you call it?'
Harvey followed her example in disposing his limbs more conventionally; also in the tuning of his voice to something between jest and earnest.
'I saidperhapsthe misfortune.'
'It makes a difference, certainly.' She smiled, her eyes turned to the door. 'Perhapsis a great word; one of the most useful in the language.—Don't you think so, Mamma?'
Mrs. Frothingham had just entered.