Rest Harrow: A Comedy of Resolution Part 22

Fought for! Blared across London in a paragraph--championed by a clown!

How was she to meet a Captain Sinclair? Her father, surely, was different.

She never doubted his love, nor that he would take her to his heart if she asked to go there. But could she? It would have to be done by stealth; she must go to the city, to his office--for her mother ruled in Great c.u.mberland Place, and she could not go there. She hated secrets, and couldn't pose as a culprit; so she delayed and delayed. It was a comfort to her to know that he was at hand: meantime, she sought about for scope to spread her wings.

For a fortnight she drank of the gales of liberty, filled her bosom with beauty, and let art smooth out her brows. She listened to music, looked at pictures, renewed her reader's ticket, and spent whole days browsing under the Bloomsbury dome. Climbing the heights, she planned out schemes of work, felt her critical faculties renewed, studied men and women, and found her old pleasure in quiet chuckling over their shifts. But she had to chuckle alone, for she never spoke to a soul. For a fortnight or so all went well--and then, quite suddenly, without any warning, going, as it were, to the fountain for water, she found there was no bottom to her cruse. She went to bed sanguine, she awoke morose. She saw the day with jaundiced eyes, scorned herself, cried "Liver!" and took medicine. She was glued to her books all day, returned late to her lodging, and found herself in tears. She discovered a tenderness, a yearning; she lay awake dreaming of her childhood, of her girlhood, of Vicky, of her father's knee, of Senhouse, her dear, preposterous friend, whose grey eyes quizzed while they loved her. Golden days with him--golden nights when she dreamed over his eager, profuse, interminable letters! All these sweet, seemly things were dead! Ah, no, not that, else must she die. She cried softly, and stretched out her arms in the dark to the gentle ghosts that peopled it. Then, being practical in grain, she jumped up, lit candles, and wrote deliberately to each of her sisters--finally, after much biting of the pen, to her father. Before her mood could cool she dressed hastily, slipped out, and posted her letters. Coming back to bed, she paused in the act to enter it--one knee upon it. Wide-eyed she wondered why she had not written to Senhouse. To him, of all people in the world, first of all! And his answer--a certainty. Hot came the reply to her question, and smote her in the face. Never to him again--never. There are certain things no woman can bring herself to do. The more she has need of a man the less possible is it to tell him so. She sighed as she got into her bed, and her eyes were very kind.

Of the five fair daughters of Thomas Welbore Percival, East India Merchant in The Poultry, Philippa, the eldest, the trenchant and clear-sighted, lived in Bryanston Square, mother of three children. Her husband, Mr.

Tompsett-King, was a solicitor, but he was much more than that, An elderly, quiet gentleman, who talked in a whisper, and seemed to walk in one too, he presided over more than one learned Society, and spoke at Congresses on non-controversial topics. A sound churchman, he deplored Romish advance on the one hand and easy divorce on the other. The salvation of human society lay, he held, within these limits. Distrust the emotions; submit all things to reason-love of G.o.d and love of women. On these terms he prospered like his father before him. It all seemed very simple to him. The handsome Philippa respected him, obeyed him particularly, and never differed from him in opinion. But she coloured every compliance with his decrees with an idiosyncrasy so marked as to make them seem her own. Where he held that Rome pandered to the emotions, she laughed it to scorn as a forcing--house of spiritual foppery; where he saw in divorce a treason to the law of contract, she said that it tempted women to fall. Is it not easy enough to sin? Must we legalise it? Why put a tax upon marriage? Mr. Tompsett-King deprecated all dottings of iotas; when Philippa stormed at society he hummed a sad little tune. Before he left for Bedford Row he patted her shoulder and said, "Gently does it."

Some such scene must ensue upon the prodigal's letter.

Hawise, Lady Pinwell, next in age to Philippa, lived in the country. Her husband was a baronet, and a handsome blond. A pretty, apple-cheeked, round-eyed girl, very much of a kitten, she was now grown plump, sleek, rather slow to move, and many times a mother. She deferred to her husband in all things, and by his wish received her parents on a formal visit once a year. She saw very little of her sisters, and as for Sanchia--the thing was not to be heard of, not even mentioned to Sir George. As, in fact, she burned the child's letter before she left her bedroom, she does not come into the tale at all.

But the pensive Melusine, three years younger than Philippa, seven older than Sanchia, may be reckoned with. She was also married, to a Mr. Gerald Scales, the son of a baronet. He was not, however, to inherit the t.i.tle, for he had a brother, Sir Matthew, and frequent nephews. But his means were ample for his rank and discreet amus.e.m.e.nts, and went further and did more for him than prolific Sir Matthew's; for Melusine gave him no sons.

His circle of being, in and through which trailed with charming languor his wife, was of more dappled sheen and of ampler circ.u.mference than that of Bryanston Square. Having its centre in Kensington Gore, it reached to Ranelagh on one side, to Maidenhead on the other. There was a riverside villa down there, where Mrs. Scales gave parties in the summertime and was punted about by flushed gentlemen in pink shirts. She was the tallest of the five sisters, and the most graceful; near-sighted enough for lorgnettes, an elegant young woman. She had an instinct for att.i.tudes, turns of the head, which were useful in _tete-a-tete_ conversations.

Mentally, she was not strong, and perhaps her manner was too elaborate: she draped herself when she sat down as if her skirts were window- curtains. Toy Pomeranians were a hobby of hers, and the early Florentine masters. She could read off the names of the saints in a sacred conversation as easily as you or I a row of actresses in a photograph shop. Mrs. Jameson's books were at her fingers' ends. Her mother favoured her more than any of her children, and was often at her house on visits.

Gerald Scales called her the Dowager, and pleased her vastly. He himself was Tubby to his friends.

Vicky, a year older than Sanchia, had married a Captain Sinclair, who was stationed at Aldershot. She had been the romp of former days and, when the storm had burst, hotly on the culprit's side. But Vicky had been flighty, and marriage changes one. Sanchia's eyes grew wistful as she sat, her letters on the wing, and thought of Vicky.

Her first response was from Melusine, in a telegram from Taplow which read, "Darling, alas!" and no more. Her comment was shrewd: "Mamma is there"--and she was right. Then came her father's letter, to pluck at her heart-strings. He invited her to the Poultry at "any hour of the day--and the sooner the better;" but was clear that she could not visit Great c.u.mberland Place without writing to Mamma. "Doing the civil" was his jocular way of putting it--one of Papa's little ways when he meant more.

She knew that he was right, and postponed the fond man and his injunction.

His love might be taken for granted by a favourite child. Just now it was her sisters' judgment she craved.

Philippa wrote with her accustomed steel. It might have been a bayonet: yet she meant to be kind.

BRYANSTON SQUARE, _Thursday._

My Dear Sanchia,--I may as well say at once that I am not surprised to hear from you; in fact, I have been expecting some such letter as yours ever since I read in the _Times_ of Claire Ingram's death. Poor unhappy woman, it was time! Some of the Pierpoints (the G.o.dfrey P's) are intimate friends of ours: we dined there last week; no party--just ourselves--and heard all about it. I learned that Mr. Ingram had gone abroad, but imagine that he will be in London before the end of the season. Have you written to Mamma? If not, _pray do so_. I a.s.sure you that it will be taken as it is meant. Nothing but good can come of it. Of that I am sure.

Now, as to your proposals. I think I will ask you to come to me _here_. I am very busy, with calls a thousand ways. I really have no afternoons free for as far forward as I can see--except Sundays, which I devote entirely to Tertius and religion. No woman ought to separate the two--love of G.o.d, love of husband in G.o.d. Sooner or later, all women learn it. Then the mornings are naturally occupied with the house and the children. They have Miss Meadows; but she is young and absurdly inconsequent. I don't see how you can expect a girl in her teens to work miracles. In fact, I don't want her to, and am at hand to see that she doesn't.

I have spoken to Tertius, and you must forgive me for saying that we both think, under the circ.u.mstances, it would look, and be, better in every way if you came here, in the first instance. Without discussing what is done, and (I pray) done with, you will see, I think, that for me _to seek you out_ would be, to say the least of it, unusual. You left our father's house for reasons of your own; I had left it to be married to Tertius.

Forgiveness, if you wish it from me, is yours: countenance of the step you took--never. You will not ask it. So come here any morning that suits you, and I shall be pleased. You will find me ready to do everything I can, to put you on your proper footing in the sphere to which you were born.-- Believe me, my dear Sanchia, your affectionate sister, PHILIPPA TOMPSETT- KING.

_P. S._--The Church's arms are very wide. One cannot be too thankful, as things have turned out, that Claire Ingram never sued for divorce. G.o.d is most merciful.

There was some knitting of brows over this, and some chuckling. Comedy is the Art of the Chuckle; but it is very seldom that one of the persons in the play can practise that which delights us. Sanchia was such a person.

She could detach herself from herself, see her own floutings and thwackings, and be amused. At the same time her reply to Philippa was curt.

"You," she wrote, "are busy, and I am not. I will come to you one of these fine mornings, and must trust to Miss Meadows' sense of fitness not to work miracles that day."

A day or two later came a telegram from Vicky Sinclair. "Just got your letter. Coming at twelve. Vicky." Sanchia glowed. "Just like her, the darling." Philippa's astringent proposal was put aside.

At twelve thirty-five there lit from a hansom an eager and pretty little lady, all in gauzy tissues and lace scarf, who knocked at the door like a postman and flew up the stair into Sanchia's arms. "Oh, Sancie, Sancie, how sweet of you to write! Now we are all going to be happy again forever after. Oh, and here's Cuthbert--I forgot." In the doorway stood the erect form, and smiled the bronzed face of Captain Sinclair of the Greys. His "How d'ye do, Miss Sanchia!" was accompanied by a look of such curious enquiry that Sanchia gave him two fingers, said, "Quite well, thank you,"

and no more. Much more had been expected, and the Captain was somewhat taken aback. He had been ready to welcome the prodigal and admire her too.

What's more, he had already very much admired her. To have one's generous motions damped by a coolness of that sort is sickening. But there it was: what could one say? what could one do? He went to the window and stood there, whistling in a whisper until his wife dismissed him. To the Cavalry Club stalked he, working himself into virtuous heat. There, at luncheon with a friend, he expatiated, which was unwise and unmannerly at once. But his own wrongs swallowed up his wife's rights.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned, Jack," he took up his parable, "I'll be d.a.m.ned if ever I do a woman a good turn any more. Never, never again. Gel I know--relative of mine she is, by marriage--goes a purler with a chap. Knew something of the chap too--so did you, I expect. Not a bad chap, by any means, barring this sort of thing. Well, now she's in town--all over--settled down, y'know. Writes to my wife. Well, I thought it was no good bein' stiff in these things. Against the spirit of the age--what? So I said we'd do the handsome thing and go up. We both wanted a spell of easy--so it was handy.

Besides, I wanted to see the gel. I own to that. And there's no doubt she's a clinker; quiet, you know, and steady; looks right at you, far in; sees the lot at a glance. Palish gel, not too big; but well set up. Square shoulders--deep-chested gel. That sort." He stared at the table-cloth hard.

"I was taken by her, mightily taken. So when she and my wife had done kissin', I put in my little oar. 'How d'ye do, Miss--' I won't mention names, though upon my d.i.c.k I don't know why I should be squeamish. But there it was; and I'd have kissed her, as you do kiss your wife's--well, cousin, let's say--if you want to. Bless you, not a bit of it. Proud as pepper. Gives me a finger. 'Quite well,' says she. 'Quite well, thank you --' and drops me. Drops _me_! Good Lord!"

He drank deeply of beer. "Well now, I tell you, that's the last time, absolutely the last time I do the civil thing to--well, to that sort, if she's my wife's grandmother." He stared out of window, mist over his blue eyes. "They're all for marrying her now. It seems it can be done. Chap's to be screwed up. Then she'll be patronising me, you'll see. Because I was decently civil--that was as far as I was prepared to go; bare civility-- and two fingers for it--'Quite well, thank you!' Oh, d.a.m.n it. Waiter--more beer."

II

Vicky was enchanting; for half-an-hour Sanchia was at the top of bliss. To be petted and diminutived by a b.u.t.terfly--it was like that; for though the child was a year older than she, six years of marriage had made a baby of her. Her audacities of old had become artless prattle, her sallies were skips in the air. Yet to be purred over by a kitten was pure joy. "You darling!' You darling little Sancie! You beautiful, pale, Madame-de-Watte- ville kind of person! Oh, my treasure--and I thought I should never see you again!" So she cooed while she cuddled, Sanchia, for her part, saying little, but kissing much. Her lips were famished; but Vicky's must be free for moments if her words were to be intelligible. During such times she stroked or patted the prodigal, and let her browse on her cheeks.

By-and-by, raptures subsiding, the pair settled down for talk, and the discrepancies which eight years had made began to show up, like rocks and boulders in a strand left bare by the ebb. Grotesque the shapes of some of them, comical others; but wrecks and dead things come to light at low water--spectral matter, squalid, rueful matter. And there are chasms set yawning, too, which you cannot bridge. Sanchia was to be lacerated.

No doubt it was laughable at first, as _naivete_ is. "Cuthbert was very funny about it"--for instance. "He was awfully anxious to see you, you know--you had never met, I think?--and yet not quite liking it. He said it was a great risk; he seemed to think I ought not to be there. He takes great care of me, the darling. And there was little d.i.c.kie, you see.

Sancie! he can just walk--a kind of totter from my knees to Cuthbert's-- and then so proud of himself! Cuthbert said that my duty was to d.i.c.kie; but I told him that I meant to come."

Yes, it was comical. "Did Captain Sinclair think I should give him a complaint?" Sanchia was smiling, with eyes and mouth; but the smile was fixed.

Vicky hugged her. "You dear one! prettiness is your complaint. I should like him to have some of that." She held her at arms' length, looked and glowed, and kissed. She took a serious tone, for the matter was serious.

"You know, Sancie, you're the only beauty in our family, the only real beauty. Philippa's awfully handsome, I know, and greatly admired--and I've always said that Melot was _lovely_. There are those three sorts of women, you know. Philippa's handsome, Melot's lovely, and you're beautiful. Then there's prettiness. I know I'm rather pretty: everybody says so. Besides, there's Cuthbert. Oh, you can always tell! For one thing--he's so fussy about my clothes--you've no idea." She preened herself, like a pigeon in the sun, before she returned to her praises. "But you! You're quite different. You're like a G.o.ddess." She touched her curiously. "Yes, I thought so. Exactly like a G.o.ddess." She sighed. "I can't think how you do it. Swedish exercises? I know it's wonderful what they do for you--_in no time_. But you have to think about them all the while, and I think of Cuthbert--and d.i.c.kie--and the horses--and, oh, all sorts of things! Those sort, I mean,--nice things." She pondered Sanchia's G.o.dhead, shaking her pretty draperies out, then recalled herself. "Oh, yes, about coming here.

Of course I knew that Mamma would make a fuss--but I had determined long ago, before I dreamed that it would ever happen, not to tell _her_ a word.

It was only Cuthbert who made me feel--well, _serious_. He is so wise, such a man of the world! But I told him that I meant to come whatever he could say--and afterwards it turned out that he wanted to come too. He was really quite keen. Wasn't that sweet of him? You would adore Cuthbert if you knew him as well as I do. But, of course, that's absurd." She suddenly became intense. "Sancie!" she said, then stopped and peered.

"Yes?" It was a sobered G.o.ddess who waited for close quarters. Vicky put her question, but peered no more.

"I wish you would tell me one thing, which--has always puzzled me. But don't, if you would rather not. How did you--I simply can't understand it --how did you ever--? I suppose you loved him very much?"

Sanchia was in a hard stare. "Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose I did."

Vicky's head darted back.

"Ah! But now you don't a bit. I knew you didn't! Sancie, that's what I can't understand. Because, you know, when you're married you do. You always love the same person. You must--you can't help it. He's so natural; he knows things that you know. He knows--everything. Oh, Sancie, I can't talk about it, but you understand, don't you?"

Poor Sancie nodded, not able to look up. Alas for her secrets, offered, taken, and forgotten! But Vicky's vivacious fingers groped in her empty cupboard. "And then, as well as that, you _ought_ to love him. You see, you've promised; it's all been made so sacred. You never forget it--the clergyman, and the altar, and the hymns. You're all in white--veiled. And you kneel there--before the altar--and he holds your hand. And the ring, oh, Sancie, the feeling of the ring!" She opened her little hand and looked down at the smoothed gold, coiled below the diamonds and pearls.

"You never forget the first feel of that. It means--everything!" She blushed, and said, in a hushed sort of way, "It meant--d.i.c.kie, to me."

Sanchia drooped and bled. Vicky, deep in her holy joys, was remorseless.

Even when she turned once more to her sister's affairs her consolation made wounds.

"Cuthbert said that it would come all right now--now that Mrs. Ingram-the wife--was--That's rather horrible. Even you must feel that. Instead of being sorry that his wife is dead, one has to be awfully glad. I suppose you felt that at once; and of course _he_ did. Poor woman! I wonder if she was buried in her ring." She eyed her own. "No one would dare take it off.

I made Cuthbert promise me this morning. But--of course people do marry again, and it will be practically the same as that." She reflected. "Yes, practically, it will, but--oh, it's very extraordinary! You've had all your fun of engagement and all that, long ago." She looked down deeply at her hand; and then she gazed at her sister. "And, oh, Sancie, you've had your honeymoon!" Before the deadly simplicity of that last stroke Sanchia fell, and lay quivering. She could not ask for mercy, she could explain, extenuate, nothing. Huddled she lay. At this aching moment the one thing that the world held worth her having seemed to be the approbation of this b.u.t.terfly child. For Vicky's happiness was specific. Nuptial bliss lay, as it were, crystallised within it. There are moments in one's life when love itself seems l.u.s.t, and safety the only holy thing. Vicky, tearing at her heart, had turned her head.

Vicky once gone, with promise of frequent intercourse by letter and otherwise, it was to Philippa's fine house and respectable man-servant she next surrendered herself. The meeting was cool, but not intolerable to a G.o.ddess sore from Vicky's whip. Philippa could ply a longer lash, but not by the same right, nor with the same pa.s.sion to drive it home. Sanchia's eyes met hers upon the level; and if the elder had a firmly modelled chin, so had the younger sister. Her strength, too, lay, as it always had, in saying little, whereas Philippa's _forte_ was dialogue. But it needs two for that. After the first greeting there came a pause, in which the embarra.s.sment, upon the whole, was Mrs. Tompsett-King's.

The trenchant lady had had her sailing orders, and was going to follow them. Mr. Tompsett-King had told her that Sanchia must be led, not driven, into Ingram's arms. "a.s.sume the best of her, my dear friend," he had said, "if you wish to get the best out of her. Take right intentions for granted. It is very seldom that a woman can resist that kind of flattery.

So far as I can read your sister's mind, she has suffered from your mother's abrupt methods. I beg of you not to repeat them. Nothing but mischief could come of it." When Mr. Tompsett-King called her his dear friend, she knew that he was serious.

But Sanchia's mood had not been reckoned with: Philippa was not Vicky. In the old days, in a wonderfully harmonious household, there had been a latent rivalry between her and all her juniors. The greatest trouble had been with Sanchia, the deliberate. And so it was now that when the elder warmed to her task of making bad best, she was suddenly chilled by that old pondering and weighing which had always offended her. Sanchia replied to her a.s.sumptions and suppositions by saying simply that she didn't know where Mr. Ingram was, and that he was no better informed of her than she of him. But surely--Philippa raised her brows--but surely she knew when he was coming to London? Sanchia's head-shake shocked her. There was but one conclusion to be drawn from it.