Jack Raymond

by Этель Лилиан Войнич

  "One moment, dear; I shall not see this again. Look!" Her eyes turned back to the crocus flowers. "They are my people."

  Jack misunderstood her meaning; he lacked her gift of keen imagination.

  "Do they grow wild in your home?" he asked, and turned his eyes away that he might not look upon the nakedness of this eternal, unhealed grief.

  "Don't you see?" Theo murmured from the grass. "They are an army."

  The sudden light leaped up in Helen's eyes.

  "An army for an instant and for ever; an army that recks not of victory or of defeat. Gain and loss are one to them; the doom of battle is upon them before they have seen the sunlight; they fail and die, and it afflicts them nothing, for they are warriors to all eternity; the very earth around their feet is thick with spears."

  The listeners held their breath as they heard; she was like a thing transfigured, full of light.

  "See how weak and defenceless they are, how easily crushed under foot; and yet how erect and patient an army. There is not one that has cast away his colours as the roses do; not one that shrivels on the stalk in the shame of a withered heart. As each man's time is come, he falls where he stood; and a new soldier fills his vacant place, never turning to look where the dead comrade lies. Then in a little while all is over, and the place where

  they died has forgotten them. Rank weeds of summer hide the withered husks and the bitter seed within. But so surely as spring comes back when winter is over, so surely shall our soldiers rise up from the dead, and stand in armoured ranks for battle, the weapon ready to the hand and every man in his place."

  Long silence followed; then she turned with a sigh.

  "Let us go, children; our spring is not yet come."

  Jack was still silent as they carried her in, and his eyes were very sombre. Assuredly she would be justified of her belief; seed time and harvest shall not fail. Yet what use, when the seed is so bitter, and all the harvest is death?

  CHAPTER XI

  After Helen's death Jack spent two years studying in Paris. He then returned to London for a year's work in the hospitals, before going to Vienna, where he intended to finish his course of study. Helen's small legacy would have been enough, with his fru­gal habits, to cover his expenses till he could get a post in some hospital; but he took all opportunities to add to it by coaching, micro­scope work, and library research, and laid aside every spare shilling for Molly. He had at first hoped that she would come to live and study with him in Paris, but to all such sugges­tions she replied by cold letters saying that she "could not leave home." They still corre­sponded, but in a formal, set way, like strangers. Jack had sometimes tried to break down the barrier between them, but met with no response; her letters continued to arrive at stated times, always worded in the same conventional manner, always stiff with the same hard reserve. Apparently she had been taught to look upon him as a reprobate whose kin­ship disgraced her. The thought was bitter to him; but he accepted it, as he had accepted so many things.

  One day, soon after his return from Paris, he received a letter, addressed in Molly's hand, but with a London post-mark. It was merely a curt announcement that she had come to town to attend the St. John's ambu­lance course and was now in Kensington, boarding with Aunt Sarah's town relatives, and that if he cared to call on Sunday after­noon he would find her in.

  He went, of course, but with a desolate sense of the futility of things. This was the sister for whom he had been pinching and sav­ing, working and planning all these years; and he was going to call upon her ceremoni­ously, just as he had to call, now and then, on the wives of the professors. The only difference was that with his sister he was less sure of a welcome.

  He found her in a terrible Early Victorian drawing-room, a tall girl, grave and self-con­tained, surrounded by thin-lipped, censorious women, whose eyes inspected him with freezing curiosity as he entered. Her own were stead­ily fixed on the floor, and the thick lashes hid their expression; but her mouth was set hard. He endured half an hour of small-talk, listen­ing for the rare sound of Molly's voice. She uttered only the barest commonplaces, and few enough of them, leaving the conversation as much as possible to the ladies of the house; but when she spoke the sound of her deep, resonant contralto, the lingering inflections of her sweet West-country speech, seemed to him, amid these arid wastes of shabby-genteel cockneydom, like a spring of water in a thirsty land. She wore a tuft of Cornish heather at her throat.

  When he rose to go, she turned to the hostess.

  "Mrs. Pepning, I will walk through the park with my brother; I shall be back in time for supper."

  Mrs. Penning bit her lip. The Vicar, when entrusting his niece to her care, had warned

  her that the brother, who lived in London and would be likely to call, was "not a suitable companion for a young girl." She had no in­tention of letting Molly walk alone with this black sheep of the family; and to send out a duenna this afternoon would interfere with arrangements already made. Really, it was very thoughtless of the girl.

  "I am afraid I cannot leave the house to­day, my dear," she said; "but if you are particularly anxious to go out I am sure Mildred will not mind accompanying you. You must be back in half an hour, though, as she is going to evening service."

  "Thank you," Molly answered; "but I need not trouble Mildred."

  "My dear! I could not possibly let you walk home alone. It is not suitable for a young girl, especially a stranger to London like you."

  Molly raised her eyes and looked at Jack. He interposed at once.

  "I will see my sister home."

  "Yes, of course," said Mrs. Penning nerv­ously; "but I think... Molly had better not go out while she is under my care, except with an older lady. Mr. Raymond is very particular, you know; and I am sure he would not like her to be seen in the park alone with a gentleman..."

  "Even with her brother?"

  Molly turned suddenly, with shining, dan­gerous eyes.

  "No, especially with her brother. You are very kind, Mrs. Penning; but my brother and I have some family matters to discuss, and we would rather be alone. Shall we go, Jack?"

  They went out in silence, while Mrs. Penning stood amazed. On the doorstep Molly turned to her brother, her nostrils quivering.

  "Those women are spies," she said.

  He accepted the statement in grave silence, acquiescing, and they walked on without further speech.

  "Do you know what I came to London for?" she began at last, without turning her head.

  "I know nothing, Molly; not even what sort of sister I have."

  "I came to see you."

  He turned, without comment, and looked at her. Her face was hard and resentful.

  "I don't know what sort of brother I have, either, and I thought it was time to find out. I have more curiosity than you, it seems."

  His mouth set in a sudden line, and the girl, watching him from under level brows, saw that she had stung him. He paused an instant before answering.

  "I am glad you came," he said.

  Molly flashed another look at him. The quick, passionate dilation of the nostrils trans­formed her face again.

  "Are you? I'm not sure I am. It depends on..."

  She broke off; then plunged on recklessly:

  "Such as you are, whatever you are, you're the only near relative I've got. Don't you think we might as well know something about each other at first hand, now we're both grown up, instead of taking things for granted through other people? Or do you think blood relationships are all rubbish?"

  "No, I don't think that; and, Molly, I have taken nothing for granted."

  "Nothing? Not when you refused an in­vitation to come and see me after — how long was it? Seven — eight years?"

  "It was an invitation to uncle's house. As for seeing you, I had waited so long for that that I could have patience a little longer till you could come to me, rather than..."

  After a little pause he added slowly:

  "I couldn't go into his ho
use. If ever we get to know each other well, you'll understand why; but I can't explain."

  "Jack!" she burst out suddenly; "what was it between you and uncle? No, don't tell me if you don't want to. I had no right to ask; it's not my business. But one hears bits and scraps of things... all sorts of things..."

  "You have every right to ask," he answered gravely. "But I don't think I have any right to tell you."

  "Do you think that's fair to me?"

  "No, but then it's not a fair position all round. I think while you are accepting anything from uncle he has a right to ask that his enemies should not tell you things against him. Don't you?"

  "Does that mean that you are his enemy? In the real sense of the word? Have you nothing to tell me but things against him?"

  "Nothing."

  "And nothing about Aunt Sarah? Are you her enemy too?"

  He paused a moment.

  "I have nothing to say about her, one way or the other."

  "Jack, whatever the thing was that hap­pened, it's more than ten years ago; and she lies awake at night and cries about you still. Last winter, when she had pleurisy, and we thought she was going to die, she clung to me and kept on repeating that she had 'done her best' for you. What wrong has she done you? I don't believe Aunt Sarah ever harmed a fly in her life. Granted, you may have something against uncle; but why should you hate her?"

  He put the subject aside.

  "I don't hate her."

  "You despise her then," the girl broke in quickly.

  "That I can't help. She's lukewarm, like the angel of Laodicea; I would she were hot or cold."

  Passionate tears glittered in Molly's eyes.

  "You will make me hate you!" she said, in her suppressed, vehement way. "An old woman, as broken down and feeble as she is; and you will let her go on worrying and fret­ting over some dead-and-gone quarrel of your schoolboy days... She asked me the other day to forgive her if she'd made mistakes in bringing me up. To forgive her, the only person in the world that ever cared for me! She's got it into her head that you were made what she calls 'wicked' by being unhappy at home, and that it was somehow her fault. Were you so unhappy, Jack?"

  "Unhappy!" He repeated the word with a quick throb in his voice that made the girl start and look round at him. "Look here, Molly," he went on with evident effort, "what's the use of raking up all this? I've nothing against Aunt Sarah, except that she was a coward and passed by on the other side. Anyhow, if she's been kind to you, I'm grateful to her for that, and she needn't worry about the rest. As for uncle, I haven't any­thing to say except what's better unsaid. If you want to know why I couldn't come to the house — well, I tried to kill him once, and that's reason enough."

  "I asked him about it one day, and he told me you..."

  "Don't!" he interrupted. "I don't want to hear anything from you, or to tell you any­thing. Don't get your impressions of him from me — they wouldn't be just. And judge of me by what you see yourself, not by what any one has told you; if I'm a bad lot you'll soon find it out without any telling."

  She turned to him with a smile. There was a peculiar charm in this sudden softening of the stern, untried face.

  "No one told me you were bad; and if they did, I shouldn't believe it at second hand. I do think you have a long memory; but that's a family failing. There are some things I remember..."

  She broke off.

  "Tiddles?" he asked.

  Her face lit up suddenly, wonderfully. "How did you know? "

  Then they both laughed, and in the silence that followed their kinship was real to them for the first time.

  "He is a most unhappy man," she said, looking out across the green space with sombre, thoughtful eyes. "He has spent his life in trying to shape the souls of his fellow creatures; and there's not one living thing that loves or respects him."

  "Except Aunt Sarah..."

  "Her life has been spent in keeping up a fiction. She's getting old now, and it's wear­ing thin; and she's scared at the truth under­neath it, and miserable."

  "The truth?"

  "That she despises him in her heart."

  "Was that why you couldn't come to Paris? " he asked abruptly.

  She slipped her arm through his. "You're good at understanding. I couldn't leave her; you don't know what a desolate house it is.

  They go through life avoiding each other's eyes; they are like people haunted by a ghost. Uncle keeps up an elaborate pretence of having forgotten that you ever existed, and she pretends he's not pre­tending."

  "And you?"

  "I pretend not to see. And the neighbours pretend there was never any old scandal about you. We all pretend."

  "Molly, don't you see how all that will end? Some day you'll come to a split with uncle, a deadly split. That's inevitable, because you're a live human creature."

  "Possibly; but it won't be in her life­time."

  "She's not so old; she may live another thirty years. And what do you suppose she'd do then?"

  "Whatever he told her to do."

  "And if he told her to turn you out?"

  "She'd do it, of course. But it would kill her. And it won't happen. Remember, I'm just all she's got in the world, even if she is lukewarm. And he knows that; he's grateful to me for sticking to her. Poor thing, she can't help it if she was born that way; I don't suppose the man in Laodicea could. Why didn't the Lord give him more courage, instead of abusing him for being a coward?"

  He laughed softly. "At least no one will accuse you of being 'born that way', my dear."

  They walked back like old friends, talking of his plans for future work. Since Helen died he had not spoken so confidentially to any one.

  For the next month London wore a sunny face to Jack. He relaxed the grind of his work alittle, and spent happy afternoons wandering about Westminster Abbey and the National Gallery with Molly. Sometimes, however, they would find themselves saddled with Mildred Penning, and all their pleasure froze to death under hard, inquisitive, disap­proving eyes. It was in order to escape from her that Molly one day proposed spending the next Saturday afternoon at Jack's lodg­ings. After a short and stormy scene with Mrs. Penning, the brother and sister climbed on to the roof of an omnibus together, unchaperoned.

  "I suppose she'll write to uncle and com­plain of you?" said Jack. She shrugged her shoulders.

  "I dare say. I've given up a good deal for uncle; but I'm not going to give up my only brother for him, and the sooner he under­stands that the better. He'll be angry for a bit, and then give in. He always does when he sees I really mean a thing."

  Jack's heart beat quicker as he took out his latch-key. The thing that he had longed for, toiled for, waited for, the close, intimate sister-love, had become an actual possibility at last. If only for one afternoon he would have her alone with him, by his fire, a vivid presence in his life.

  "Come in, Molly; I've only a bed-sitting-room, you know. Oh, Mrs. Smith has made a fire! That was thoughtful of her."

  Then he drew back suddenly and stood on the threshold, staring blankly into the room. Theo was stretched at full-length on the hearth rug, watching the dance of shadows on the fire-lit ceiling. The hot glow of the red coals shone on his head; on the slim, strong hands with their blunted finger-tips; on the characteristic, irregular lines of chin and brow. He seemed to bask in the heat like a sunned snake.

  "Hullo, Jack!"

  Even in the first moment of surprise Jack was conscious once more of the musician's splendid indolence of posture and freedom of movement. Theo never needed to scramble to his feet; getting up, after lying flat on the floor, he seemed merely to change one ap­propriate and graceful attitude for another.

  "My sister," said Jack. "Theodore Mirski."

  His own voice sounded dull and harsh in his ears. He had already seen the stiffening and hardening of Molly's face; the instant reserve in which she had enwrapped herself; and his heart was as lead within him.

  "I thought you were in Vienna," he said.

  "J
oachim can't come, and they telegraphed, asking me to play instead of him at St. James's Hall to-morrow. I was glad enough of the chance to see you. Why, Jack, I never saw you look so well, or so sulky. Don't you want me? You can turn me out, Miss Ray­mond, if I'm in the way."

  "I'm afraid it's I that am in the way," said Molly. Her voice fell like a little icicle into their midst, chilling even Theo. He muttered some polite commonplace with a startled glance at her; and they sat down, decorously stiff and depressed.

  Jack did his conscientious best to smooth away the queer awkwardness between his visitors. But, looking from Molly to Theo and back again to Molly, he realised how hopeless it was. These two, between whom lay all his personal life, appeared incompati­bility personified; the artist, half angel, half baby, to whom he must be never-failing mother and devotee, guardian and slave; and the unformed, intolerant, passionate little Puritan girl who held him at arm's length, and for whose sake he would have died. He was as chained to both of them, and it seemed to him that their mutual repulsion must tear him piecemeal.

  The miserable effort at small-talk failed at last, hopelessly, and Jack looked up from the red coals with a desperate feeling that some­thing must be done to end the silence before it became unbearable. Theo's face was curi­ously agitated; Molly's, inscrutable and grave. He looked round the room, and the violin-case, lying on the sofa, caught his eyes.

  "Theo," he said, "I wish you'd play. My sister has never heard you."

  The musician rose at once, and fetched his instrument. He seemed to find the suggestion a relief.

  "What do you want?" he asked, curling himself down on the hearth rug with the violin against his neck. "Folk-songs? They don't want accompaniments."

  "Slavonic ones, if you will. Did you ever hear a Polish folk-song, Molly?"

  "You know I've never heard anything."

  She leaned back, drawing the fire-screen forwards; her brow a little contracted, her eyes grave and wide in a shadowed, listening face, while the folk-songs trailed their low sound through the half-darkened room like disembodied ghosts of music buried long ago.