Why did I not venture in to speak to her? I had never seen a figure so desolate and forsaken. Could things ever be so far gone as to say no to that? I hesitated; turned away: she would think I had come only to beg for mercy.
For hours I sat dully brooding. What a trap I was in. In my rummagings in the Monnerie library I had once chanced on a few yellow cardboard-covered novels tucked away in a cupboard, and had paddled in one or two of them. Now I realized that my life also was nothing but ‘a Shocker’. So people actually suffered and endured the horrible things written about in cheap, common books.
One by one I faced Fanny’s charges in my mind. None was true, yet none was wholly false. And none was of any consequence beside the fact that she execrated the very self in me of which I could not be conscious. And what would she do? What did all those covert threats and insinuations mean? A ‘husband’ – why had that such a dreadful power to wound me? I heard my teeth begin to chatter again. There was no defence, no refuge anywhere. If I could get no quiet, I should go mad. I looked up from my stool. It was dark. It was a scene made for me. I could watch the miserable little occupant of its stage roving to and fro like one of my showman’s cowed, mangy beasts.
The thought of the day still ahead of me, through which I must somehow press on, keep alive, half stupefied me with dread. We can shut our eyes and our mouths and our hearts; why cannot we stop thinking? The awful passive order of life: its mechanicalness. All that I could see was the blank white face of its clock – but no more of the wheels than of the Winder. No haste, no intervention, no stretching-out beyond one’s finger tips. So the world wore away; life decayed; the dunghill smoked. Mrs. Monnerie there; stepping into her brougham, ebony cane in hand, Marvell at her elbow; Mrs. Bowater languishing on board ship, limp head in stiff frilling; Sir Walter dumb; the showman cursing his wretched men; the bills being posted, the implacable future mutely yawning, the past unutterable. Everything in its orbit. Was there no help, no refuge?
The door opened and the skimpy little country girl who waited on me in Fleming’s absence, brought in my supper. She bobbed me a scared curtsey, and withdrew. Then she, too, had been poisoned against me. I flung myself down on the floor, crushing my hands against my ears. Yet, through all this dazed helplessness, in one resolve I never faltered. I would keep my word to the showman, and this night that was now in my room should be the last I would spend alive in Monk’s House. Fanny must do her worst. Thoughts of her, of my unhappy love and of her cruelty, could bring no good. Yet I thought of her no less. Her very presence in the house lurked in the air, in the silence, like an apparition’s.
Still stretched on the floor, I woke to find the September constellations faintly silvering the pale blue crystal of the Northern Lights; and the earth sighing as if for refuge from the rising moon. My fears and troubles had fallen to rest beneath my dreams, and I prepared myself for the morrow’s flight.
Chapter Forty-Eight
When next Fanny and I met, it was in the cool grey-green summery drawing-room at Monk’s House, and Mrs. Monnerie and Susan shared tea with us. One covert glance at Mrs. Monnerie’s face had reassured me. That strange mask was as vigilant and secretive, but as serene, as when it had first smiled on me in the mauves and gildings of Brunswick House. She had set her world right again and was at peace with mankind. As complacently as ever she stretched me out her finger. She had not even taken the trouble to forgive me for my little ‘scene’; had let it perish of its own insignificance. Oh, I thought, if I could be as life-size as that! I did not learn till many days afterwards, however, that she had had news of me from France. Good news, which Sir W., trusting in my patience and commonsense, had kept back from me until he could deliver it in person and we could enjoy it together.
Only one topic of conversation was ours that afternoon – that ‘amazing Prodigy of Nature’, the Spanish Princess; Mrs. Monnerie’s one regret that she herself had not discovered a star of such ineffably minute magnitude. Yet her teasing and sarcasm were so nimble and good-humoured; she insinuated so pleasantly her little drolleries and innuendoes, that even if Miss M. had had true cause for envy and malice, she could have taken no offence. Far from it.
I looked out of the long open windows at the dipping, flittering wagtails on the lawn; shrugged my shoulders; made little mouths at her with every appearance of wounded vanity. Did she really think, I inquired earnestly, that that shameless creature was as lovely as the showman’s bills made her out to be? Mightn’t it all be a cheat, a trick? Didn’t they always exaggerate – just to make money? The more jovially she enjoyed my discomfiture, nodding her head, swaying in her chair, the more I enjoyed my duplicity. The real danger was that I should be a little too clever, over-act my part, and arouse her suspicions.
‘Ah, you little know, you little know,’ I muttered to myself, sharply conscious the while of the still, threatening presence of Fanny. But she meant to let me go – that was enough. It was to be good riddance to bad rubbish. There was nothing to fear from her – yet. Her eyes lightly dwelling on me over her Chelsea teacup, she sat drinking us in. Well, she should never taunt me with not having played up to her conception of me.
‘Well, well,’ Mrs. Monnerie concluded, ‘all it means, my dear, is that you are not quite such a rarity as we supposed. Who is. There’s nothing unique in this old world; though character, even bad character, never fails to make its mark. Ask Mr. Pellew.’
‘But, surely, Mrs. Monnerie,’ said I, ‘it isn’t character to sell yourself at twopence a look.’
‘Mere scruples, Poppet,’ she retorted. ‘Think of it. If only you could have pocketed that pretty little fastidiousness of yours, the newspapers would now be ringing with your fame. And the fortune! You are too pernickety. Aren’t we all of us on show? And aren’t nine out of ten of us striving to be more on show than we are entitled to be? If man’s first disobedience and the rest of it doesn’t mean that, then what, I ask you, Mademoiselle Bas Bleu, was the sour old Puritan so concerned about? Assist me, Susan, if I stumble.’
‘I wish I could, Aunt Alice,’ said Susan sweetly, cutting the cake. ‘You must ask Miss Bowater.’
‘Please, Miss Monnerie,’ drawled Fanny.
‘Whether or not,’ said Mrs. Monnerie crisply, ‘I beseech you, children, don’t quarrel about it. There is our beloved Sovereign on her throne; and there the last innocent little victim in its cradle; and there’s the old sun waggishly illuminating the whole creaking stage. Blind beggar and dog, Toby, artists, authors, parsons, statesmen – heart and everything else, or everything else but heart, on sleeve – and all on show – every one of them – at something a look. No, my dear, there’s only one private life, the next; and, according to some accounts, that will be more public than ever. And so twirls the Merry-go-Round.’
Her voice relapsed, as it were, into herself again, and she drew in her lips. She looked about her as if in faint surprise; and in returning to its usual expression, it seemed to me that her countenance had paused an instant in an exceedingly melancholy condition. Perhaps she had caught the glint of sympathy in my eye.
‘But isn’t that all choice, Mrs. Monnerie?’ I leaned forward to ask. ‘And aren’t some people what one might call conspicuous, simply because they are really and truly, as it were, superior to other people? I don’t mean better – just superior.’
‘I think, Mrs. Monnerie,’ murmured Fanny deprecatingly, ‘she’s referring to that “ad infinitum” jingle – about the fleas, you know. Or was it Dr. Watts, Midgetina?’
‘Never mind about Dr. Watts,’ said Mrs. Monnerie flatly. ‘The point from which we have strayed, my dear, is that even if you were not born great, you were born exquisite; and now here’s this Angélique rigmarole –’ Her face creased up into its old good-humoured facetiousness: ‘Was it three inches, Miss Bowater?’
‘Four, Mrs. Monnerie,’ lipped Fanny suavely.
‘Four! pooh! Still, that’s what they say; half a head or more, my dear, more exquisite! Perfect nonsense, of co
urse. It’s physically impossible. These Radical newspapers! And the absinthe, too.’ Her small black-brown eyes roamed round a little emptily. Absinthe! was that a Fanny story? ‘But there, my child,’ she added easily, ‘you shall see for yourself. We dine with the Padgwick-Steggals; and then go on together. So that’s settled. It will be my first travelling circus since I was a child. Most amusing: if the lion doesn’t get out, and there’s none of those horrible accidents on the trapeze one goes in hope to see. By the way, Miss Bowater, your letter was posted?’
‘Oh, yes, Mrs. Monnerie – this afternoon; but, as you know, I was a little doubtful about the address.’ She hastened to pass me a plate of button-sized ratafias; and Mrs. Monnerie slowly turned a smiling but not quite ingenuous face aside.
‘What a curious experience the circus will be for you, Midgetina,’ Fanny was murmuring softly, glancing back over her shoulder towards the tea-table. ‘Personally, I believe the Signorina Angélique and the rest of it is only one of those horrible twisted up prodigies with all the bones out of place. Mightn’t it, Mrs. Monnerie, be a sort of shock, you know, for Miss M.? She’s still a little pale and peaky.’
‘She shall come, I say, and see for herself,’ replied Mrs. Monnerie petulantly.
There was a pause. Mrs. Monnerie gazed vacantly at the tiers of hothouse flowers that decorated the window-recess. Susan sat with a little forked frown between her brows. She never seemed to derive the least enjoyment from this amiable, harmless midget-baiting. Not at any rate one hundredth part as much as I did. Fanny set Plum begging for yet another ratafia. And then, after a long, deep breath, my skin all ‘goose-flesh’, I looked straight across at my old friend.
‘I don’t think, Mrs. Monnerie,’ I said, ‘if you don’t mind – I don’t think I really wish to go.’
As if Joshua had spoken, the world stood still.
Mrs. Monnerie slowly turned her head. ‘Another headache?’
‘No, I’m perfectly well, thank you. But, whatever I may have said, I don’t approve of that poor creature showing herself for – for money. She is selling herself. It must be because there’s no other way out.’
Finger and thumb outstretched above the cringing little dog, Fanny was steadily watching me. With a jerk of my whole body I turned on her. ‘You agreed with me, Fanny, didn’t you, in the garden yesterday afternoon?’
Placidly, Fanny drooped her lids: ‘Trust, Plum, trust!’
‘What!’ croaked Mrs. Monnerie, ‘you, Miss Bowater! Guilty of that silly punctilio! She was merely humouring you, child. It will be a most valuable experience. You shall be perfectly protected. Pride, eh? Or is it jealousy? Now what would you say if I promise to try and ransom the poor creature? – buy her out? pension her off? Would that be a nice charitable little thing to do? She might make you quite a pleasant companion.’
‘Ah, Mrs. Monnerie, please let me buy her out. Let me be the intermediary!’ I found myself, hands clasped in lap, yearningly stooping towards her, just like a passionate young lady in a novel.
She replied ominously, knitting her thick, dark eyebrows. ‘And how’s that to be done, pray, if you sulk here at home?’
‘I think, Aunt Alice, it’s an excellent plan,’ cried Susan, ‘much, much more considerate. She could write. Think of all those horrible people! The poor thing may have been kidnapped, forced to do her silly tricks like one of those wretched, little barbered-up French poodles. Anyhow, I don’t suppose she’s there – or anywhere else, for that matter – for fun!’
Even Susan’s sympathy had its sting.
‘Thank you, Susan,’ was Mrs. Monnerie’s acid retort. ‘Your delicate soul can always be counted on. But advice, my child, is much the more valuable when asked for.’
‘Of course I mustn’t interfere, Mrs. Monnerie,’ interposed Fanny sweetly; ‘but wouldn’t it perhaps be as well for you to see the poor thing first? She mayn’t be quite – quite a proper kind of person, may she? At least that’s what the newspapers seem to suggest. Not, of course, that Miss M. wouldn’t soon teach her better manners.’
Mrs. Monnerie’s head wagged gently in time to her shoe. ‘H’m. There’s something in that, Miss Worldly-Wise. Reports don’t seem to flatter her. But still, I like my own way best. Poppet must come and see. After all, she should be the better judge.’
Never before had Mrs. Monnerie so closely resembled a puffed-out tawny owl.
I looked at her fixedly: shook my head. ‘No, no, judge,’ I spluttered. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Monnerie, but I won’t go.’
There was no misdoubting her anger now. The brows forked. The loose-skinned hands twitched. She lifted herself in her chair. ‘Won’t,’ she said. ‘You vex me, child. And pray don’t wriggle at me in that hysterical fashion. You are beside yourself; trembling like a mouse. You have been mooning alone too much, I can see. Run away and nurse that silly head, and at the same time thank heaven that you have more time and less need of the luxury than someone else we know of. It may be a low life, but it needs courage. I’ll say that for her.’
She swept her hands to her knees over her silken lap, and turned upon Susan.
Wanderslore
* * *
Chapter Fifty
I had been dismissed. But Mrs. Monnerie’s anger had a curious potency. For a moment I could scarcely see out of my eyes, and the floor swayed under me as I scrambled down from my chair. It took me at least a minute, even with the help of a stool, to open the door.
Like a naughty child I had been put in the corner and then sent to bed. Good. There could be no going back now. I could count on Fanny – the one thing she asked was to be free of me. As for Mrs. Monnerie, her flushed and sullen countenance convinced me that my respite would be undisturbed. There was only impulsive Susan to think of. And as if in answer, there came a faint tap, and the door softly opened to admit her gentle head and shoulders.
‘Ah, my dear,’ she whispered across at me. ‘I’m so sorry; and so helpless. Don’t take it too hardly. I have been having my turn, too.’
I twisted round, wet face and hands, as I stood stooping over my washbowl on its stool, scrutinized her speechlessly, and shook a dizzy head. The door shut. Dearest Susan: as I think of her I seem to see one of those tiny, tiny ‘building rotifers’ collecting out of reality its exquisite house. Grace, courage, loving kindness. If I had been the merest Miss Hop-o’-my-Thumb, I should still have been the coarsest little monster by comparison.
Scarce three safe hours remained to me; I must be off at once. To go looking for Adam was out of the question. Even if I could find him, I dared not risk him. Would it be possible for me to cover my six miles or more across undiscovered country in a hundred and eighty minutes? In my Bowater days, perhaps; but there had been months of idle, fatted, indoor No. 2 in between. A last forlorn dishonest project, banished already more than once from my mind, again thrust itself up – to creep off to the nearest Post Office and with one of my crown pieces for a telegram, cast myself on the generosity of Mr. Anon. No, no: I couldn’t cheat myself like that.
I was ready. I pinned to the carpet a message for Adam, in case he should dare to be faithful to me – just four scribbled uncompromising words: ‘The Bird is flown.’ With eyes fixed on a starry knot of wood at the threshold, I stood for a while, with head bent, listening at my door. I might have been pausing between two worlds. The house was quiet. No voice cried ‘Stay’. I bowed solemnly to the gentle, silent room behind me, and, with a prayer between my teeth, bundle in hand, stepped out into the future.
Unchallenged, unobserved, I slipped along the blue-carpeted corridor, down the wide stairs and out of the porch. After dodging from tree to tree, from shrub to shrub, along the meandering drive, I turned off, and, skirting the lodge through a seeding forest of weeds and grasses, squeezed through the railings and was in the lane. From my map of Kent I had traced out a rough little sketch of the route I must follow. With the sun on my left hand I set off almost due north. How still the world was. In that silk-blue sky with its placid, mou
ntainous clouds there was no heed of human doings.
The shoes I had chosen were good sound Bowaters, and as I trudged on my spirits rose high. I breathed in deep draughts of the sweet September air. Thomasina of Bedlam had been ‘summoned to tourney’. ‘The wide world’s end …No journey!’ In sober fact, it was a sorry little wretch of a young female, scarcely more than a girl, that went panting along in the dust and stones, scrambling into cover of ditch and hedge at every sound or sight of life. I look at her now, and smile. Poor thing; it needed at any rate a pinch of ‘courage’.
Cottages came into sight. At an open door I heard the clatter of crockery, and a woman scolding a child. Two gates beyond, motionless as a block of wood, an old, old man stood leaning out of his garden of dahlias and tarnishing golden-rod. In an instant in the dumb dust I was under his nose. His clay pipe shattered on the stone. Like a wagtail I flitted and scampered all in a breath. That little danger was safely over; but it was not ruminating old gentlemen who caused me apprehension. Youthful Adam Waggetts were my dread.
At the foot of the slope there came a stile, and a footpath winding off north-west but still curving in my direction. I hesitated. Any risk seemed better than the hedged-in publicity of this dusty lane. Ducking under the stile, I climbed the hill and presently found myself clambering across an immense hummocky field, part stubble, part fresh plow. Then a meadow and cows. Then once more downhill, a drowsy farmyard, with its stacks and calves and chickens, to the left, and at bottom of the slope a filthy quagmire where an immense sow wallowed, giving suck to her squalling piglets. Her glinting, amorous eyes took me in. Stone on to stone, I skipped across a brook, dowsing one leg to the thigh in its bubbling water. It was balm in Gilead, for I was in a perfect fume of heat, and my lungs were panting like bellows.
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