by E. F. Benson
Elizabeth turned farther round in her chair, but her hand still lay on the closed blotting-book.
“Oh, I was only just beginning a scribble to father!” she said. “It will not be ready.”
Edith considered the days of the week; but she felt that she knew it was not to her father that Elizabeth was writing.
“It will just catch the mail if I post it for you,” she said. “Otherwise it will have to wait another week.”
“Then it must wait another week,” said Elizabeth.
Jealous people never themselves feel the wantonness and cruelty of their unconfirmed suspicions; they only know that these are not suspicions at all, but certainties.
“I noticed that you had a letter from Edward again this morning,” she said.
Elizabeth slightly shifted the blotting-book, and Edith registered the fact — for so it seemed to her — that the letter was lying there.
“Again?” said Elizabeth.
Edith felt that she was not being wise. But jealousy is of all passions the most pig-headed; it only says “I must know, I must know!”
“Yes, you heard from him a week ago.”
Elizabeth, who had been startled by her cousin’s entry, was cool enough now. She perfectly understood what prompted this catechism. But little did Edith know how gallant a battle was being fought on her behalf by the girl whom she now so utterly distrusted and suspected; little also did she know that which Elizabeth was using her whole strength to conceal.
Elizabeth laughed; she meant to laugh, anyhow; the effort might pass for a laugh.
“Yes, I believe I did,” she said. “And as for that, I rather fancy you have been hearing from him every day.”
“Naturally. Did he say in his letter to you when he expected to come down here again? He has not told me that.”
“No, he did not mention it, as far as I remember. He appears to be very busy.”
“He appears to have time to write very long letters to you!” said Edith, hatred and resentment flashing out. Till that moment she had not known that she hated her cousin.
Elizabeth opened her blotting-book, took out of it her unfinished letter, and from under it Edward’s. She slipped them into a piece of music that lay there, and, holding it in her hand, stood up and left the table.
“What do you know about the length of his letter to me?” she asked.
Edith saw her mistake. The instinct that said “I must know, I must know!” had been wonderfully ill-inspired in its notions of how to find out.
“I happened to take it up; it was a thick letter,” she said, hopelessly trying to efface her steps, giving as reason an irrational excuse.
“I don’t know the thickness of Edward’s letter to you,” said Elizabeth. “It is no concern of mine how many sheets he writes you.”
She paused a moment.
“You speak as if you resent Edward’s writing to me at all,” she added.
Edith saw that she could get at nothing in this way. Swiftly and unexpectedly she shifted her attack, answering Elizabeth’s comment by another question.
“Why does he keep away from Heathmoor?” she said.
Elizabeth had not been expecting anything of this kind. She winced as from a blow, and had to wait a moment before she could trust her voice to be steady.
“Has he not told you?” she asked. “I thought it was work during the week, and a couple of visits for the Sundays that he is away.”
Two instincts were dominant in Edith — love and jealousy, inextricably intertwined, disputing for mastership. Love and its yearning anxiety — a cord, so to speak, of which jealousy held the other end, pulled her here.
“But it’s so strange of him,” she said; “and his letters are strange! I don’t understand it at all. Can’t you help me to understand, Elizabeth? You are so much cleverer than I! Has it anything to do with music?”
There was no mistaking the sudden and piteous sincerity of her tone. Half a minute ago she had been all anger, all hate, all suspicion. Now she appealed to her whom she had hated and suspected.
Elizabeth felt her eyes grow suddenly dim.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry, Edith!” she said. “I should be quiet, not let my thoughts run away with me, and — and trust that everything is all right.”
“Then there is something wrong?” asked Edith.
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean to imply it. Take it that he is busy, that he has visits he feels he must pay. Why should he conceal things from you? Why should you assume there is anything to conceal?”
Edith instinctively shrank from making the direct accusation which all this week her jealousy had been dinning in her ears so that her head rang with it. Elizabeth would simply deny it, but it would put her on her guard (here jealousy was busy to prompt) and the chance of finding out more would be lost. Her emotion had narrowed and enfeebled the scope and power of thought; she could make no plan.
“I am very unhappy,” she said simply.
Elizabeth took a step towards her.
“I am sorry for that, dear,” she said. “But — but don’t make yourself unhappy. Don’t contribute to it.”
The expected summons came, and even as the wheels of the motor crunched the gravel Lind sounded the gong and Mrs. Hancock entered. The household books had proved at least a sovereign less than she had expected, also the coral necklace with the pearl clasp had come back from the jeweller’s in its new case, with Edith’s initials on it. She felt that these two delightful phenomena were somehow dependent on each other; the money she had spent on the new case seemed to be returned to her by the modesty of the household books.
“Dearest, are you ready?” she asked Edith. “Let us start at once and we can go round by the old mill. And what delicious tunes you have been playing, Elizabeth, my dear. Edward will think you have got on when he hears you again. Why, you hardly limp at all this morning, Edith! I knew that the lotion I gave you last night would make you better.”
Mrs. Hancock settled herself among her cushions. She had lately got a new one, rather stiff and resisting, which admirably supported the small of her back. The footstool from the stores continued to give complete satisfaction.
“And such a lovely day!” she said. “Just not too hot! Oh, what a jolt, and yet I hardly felt it at all with my new cushion. I see there has been a dreadful accident in a Welsh colliery. So sad for the poor widows and families! What a lot of misery there is in the world. But, as Mr. Martin says, we should not dwell on it too much, for fear of dimming our sense of thankfulness for all our blessings. And Edward? Have you heard from Edward? When is that naughty boy coming back? You will have to scold him, dear, for neglecting you while he absorbs himself in making money. There! Did you not hear the cuckoo just say ‘Cuck’? — there is a rhyme about it. Yes, Edward is really quite greedy, stopping up in London like this to make money. Yet, after all, dear, you must consider that he is working for you, making himself rich for you.”
Edith turned round sharply, so sharply, in fact, that her mother was startled, for sudden movements were not characteristic of her.
“Do you really think that is all, mother?” she said. “And if so, how about the Sundays? He was not here last Sunday, and he is not coming down for next Sunday.”
“But what do you mean, Edith?” asked Mrs. Hancock. “You have not had a quarrel or anything?”
What Edith could not say to her cousin was possible now.
“No, we have not quarrelled,” she said. “But what if he doesn’t even care to quarrel? What if he has ceased to care at all? Or” — it came out with difficulty— “or if he cares for somebody else?”
Mrs. Hancock was sufficiently disturbed not to call attention to another cuckoo, that, in defiance of the rhyme, was still gifted with complete speech.
“But what a wild and dreadful idea!” she said. “Have you any reason for supposing so?”
So far could Edith go. But she could not tell her mother that she had definite suspicions that affi
nities, attractions had begun to exert their force between her lover and Elizabeth. The chief feeling that kept her silent was pride. The confession would be humiliating; she would be acknowledging herself as having failed to feed the affection she had inspired. Her love for him, genuine though it was, and the best of which her nature was capable, was not large enough to make her drown herself. She still kept her own head above water, not guessing that it is through the drowning, the asphyxiation of self, that the full life of love is born. A second cause of reticence, less dominant, was her belief in Edward’s loyalty. It was overlaid with suspicion, which, ivy-like, covered it, and thrust pushing tendrils between the stones of its solidity, but beneath all this rank growth it was still there. She did not yet quite soberly believe all that she suspected. She sat silent a moment, to her mother’s huge discomfort, weighing her pride in the balance and confusing it with her loyalty.
“If it were not for his absence I should not have any reason,” she said. “But I don’t understand his absence.”
The gospel according to Mr. Martin was of the greatest assistance on this point.
“Then, my dear, dismiss it altogether,” said Mrs. Hancock, with relief. “Why, it was that very point that Mr. Martin spoke of last Sunday. Ah! I remember; you could not go to church because of your ankle. But he told us that we ourselves were responsible for most of our own unhappiness, and that if we only determined to feel cheerful and thankful we should find the causes of thankfulness being multiplied round us. Was it not a coincidence that he preached on that very subject? One can hardly call it a coincidence; indeed, one feels sure there must have been some purpose behind it. What lovely sunshine, is it not? And there is the old mill. So picturesque! Tell Denton to stop a moment and let us look at it.”
A pause was made for the contemplation of this particular cause for thankfulness, and Mrs. Hancock put up her parasol to temper the other.
“Well, that is nice!” she said. “Shall we drive on? I have never heard Mr. Martin more convincing and eloquent, and I’m sure he practises what he preaches, for he has always got a smile and a pleasant word for everybody. So dismiss it all from your mind, dear, and I’ll be bound you will find Edward coming down here before many days are past, just the same as ever, showing how right Mr. Martin is, for your cheerfulness will be rewarded. I see nothing odd in his having to stop up in town all the week; and as for his going away for a couple of Sundays to see his friends, what could be more natural? You would not wish him to be without friends, I am sure, or to shirk the claims of friendship. And since you said that his absence was your only ground for your dreadfully foolish idea, I think we may consider that we’ve disposed of that. Now let us look about us and enjoy ourselves. Oh, there’s a windmill! How its sails are going round!”
Mrs. Hancock cast a slightly questioning glance at her daughter to see if Mr. Martin’s wonderful prescription was acting at once, like laughing-gas, and, finding that Edith still sat serious and silent, proceeded to administer other fortifying medicines.
“He has often told us to busy ourselves with plans and thoughts for others,” she said. “And there, again, how he practises what he preaches: he has had the dining-room repapered, since Mrs. Martin thought it was a little gloomy, and has given her the most beautiful new carpet for her sitting-room. And I’m sure I’ve never been happier in my life than this summer, with all your future, dear, to plan and scheme for, and with Elizabeth as well to think about. I must say I haven’t had a moment to think about myself, even if I had wanted to.”
Her kind face beamed with such smiles as Mr. Martin considered to be symptomatic of the Christian life.
“I’ve got a plan about Elizabeth,” she said, “though it’s a secret yet. But I should like to tell you about it. I am thinking of making a proposal to Elizabeth and suggesting that she should not go back to India as early as October. There is no great affection between her and her stepmother, and I expect she often feels very lonely and unhappy there, with no music and, as far as I can judge, only soldiers to talk to. Dear Elizabeth! I think she is enjoying our quiet life at Heathmoor. I dare say that after those dreadful wildernesses and jungles in India it seems to her one round of excitement and pleasure and parties and operas, all given her free. Indeed, I have a further plan still, which will make her quite wild with pleasure, I am sure. I am thinking of asking her to come with me to Egypt, and I have written to ask Uncle Bob about it, just to see if he will allow it before I say anything to her. Of course, he would pay for her journey — and, indeed, it is all on the way to India — and her hotel expenses. But I should not dream of charging her for her share of our sitting-room, if we have one. I shall go shares with Edward in that, and I dare say the servants at the hotel would not expect her to tip them!”
Mrs. Hancock’s plans for other people always necessitated a certain amount of interpretation; it was important to look at them from her point of view. Here the interpretation was easy. It had occurred to her that she would be rather lonely when Edith and Edward left after their marriage, and that in Egypt it would be pleasant to have somebody in constant attendance on her, since the other two, presumably, would want to make all kinds of expeditions that she herself might not care to join in. She liked Elizabeth’s vitality and fervour, finding it stimulating. This point she touched on next.
“I declare Elizabeth is as good as a tonic,” she said, “with all her high spirits and gaiety, though for the last ten days she has not been quite so lively. I dare say it is the hot weather, though, to be sure, she ought to be used to that. Here we are, on the heath again. We shall be at home in ten minutes. How quickly we have come! Well, my darling, I do think I have managed to disperse your clouds for you this morning. I don’t think Edward’s absence will give you any more anxiety now that we have talked so fully about it. There is nothing like talking a thing thoroughly over. You will see that it will not be long before his stress of work is finished. Perhaps he is making quantities and quantities of money, for I hear that sometimes on the Stock Exchange people make fortunes in quite a short time. Would not that be exciting?”
Mrs. Hancock, as has been seen, had a great belief in the imitative instinct, which she interpreted by means of her own. To her it meant that if she herself felt thoroughly content and happy, it was certain that those round her would feel happy too, for she diffused happiness. In the same way, if she felt very well she knew that she diffused a spirit of health. It was a comfortable belief (like all the clauses of her creed), and she would have been quite incredulous if she had been told that all she had done was to accentuate Edith’s suspicions by her allusion to Elizabeth’s diminished liveliness, and to depress her thoroughly at the thought of Elizabeth joining them on the Egyptian tour. And had Edith known how Elizabeth had been spending this last hour while her mother had been so rich in unconvincingness, she would have known how solid her suspicions really were.
The girl had gone up to her bedroom after the motor had started in order to be secure against any further interruption, and had again read through the letter she had received from Edward that morning, which, as Edith had ascertained, contained two sheets. She heard his voice in the pleading sentences; it seemed to her as she read, with eyes that ever and again were too dim to decipher the words, that he was actually talking to her. And she could not interrupt him, argue with him as she would have done if he had been here; she had to fight the cumulative effect of those close-written lines. He besought her to allow him to come down, for it was at her instance that he stayed away, and tell Edith all. He scouted as childish the idea that absence could make any difference, that he could forget what she had called “the excited madness of that evening.” Above all, again and yet again, with a lover’s clamorous iteration, he begged her to see him.
Elizabeth sat with this letter in front of her for a long time after she had finished reading and rereading it, letting her tears have their way with her. In strange guise had the soft god come to her, girt about with bitterness and impossibilities.
She raged at herself for loving him; she reviled this torturing demon that others found so sweet, but how she longed for the changed, transfigured aspect that he burned to show her. Once, for mere relief of heart, she filled a page with scrawled words of love, only to tear it up again, and once she filled another page with useless denials, with cold assertions that Edward was nothing to her, that she was perfectly indifferent to him. That, too, was fruitless; he knew she loved him, and even if she could have convinced him that it was not so, she could not have brought herself so to convince him to deny the most sacred truth that she had ever known. She could no more have done that than she could accept the love which brought misery on another and rose from the ashes of a broken promise. If there was no binding force in loyalty all ties were dissolved.
After a while her sobs grew quieter, and she tore up the letter she had begun to him when Edith, that morning, had come in from the garden. Till then, Elizabeth had not known that her cousin suspected anything, that she had begun to put the real construction on Edward’s absence. Now it was necessary to quiet those suspicions, to let Edward know also, in a way she could not convey by letter, that while Edith claimed his promise, that promise could not be broken for any reason whatever. Nothing in the world seemed so certain as this. Edith must voluntarily give him up before.... Then she carefully erased that sentence. That contingency was not to be thought of yet.
Elizabeth felt utterly weary and confused and heart-sick. Obstacles, menacing and monstrous, faced her in whichever direction she turned. Perhaps Edward’s presence would only confirm and strengthen Edith’s suspicions, and lead her to the certainty which she suspected. Yet if Edward continued to be absent, that would lead to a break on his side, at his initiative, and it was that above all that must be avoided. If he threw her over, said he could not marry her, the hosts of hell and heaven combined would not be able to bring Elizabeth to him. She could not take what by right was Edith’s against Edith’s will. It was possible, and more than possible, that Edith might see he did not love her, and not release him only, but bid him begone. And yet Edward had never loved her, while she, loving him in her own manner, had been content with his liking and friendly intimacy. When she knew that his heart had been awakened, but not for her, would she still desire that moonlight, when his sun had risen on another land? Elizabeth, as she finished her letter to Edward, felt that she had not the slightest idea.