Daphne in Fitzroy Street/Chapter 24

ND now at last the way seems clear. Daphne is to be happy with the man of her choice, her young, undisciplined choice. In the rapture of achievement, for has she not done what she all along meant to do?—seen him, and spoken with him and by her voice and her presence made it “all right”—all the loves she has shut out of her heart come back like bright birds to nest there. We see her writing long letters to Columbine and Doris—printed this last, that Doris may read it, and enlivened by pictures to lure her to the reading. We see her taking to that East End studio so bright a face that the nursing aunt and her convalescent Russian can look at nothing else while she is there. She has her heart’s desire, the light of life is hers now once more, she can afford to be the light of other people’s lives. She can afford even to forgive St. Hilary, and does it, when he crawls, broken and penitent, to her feet.

“I’m sure you meant to be kind,” she says; “and all that that he said was nonsense, and he only said it because he was in a rage with you; and we’re going to be married before Christmas.”

These were the days when her heart went singing, and through the song of her heart rang a note of triumph, She had not failed, after all. She who had always succeeded had succeeded here as always. She had won back her lover, she had overcome his scruples, she had been wiser than he—she had always been by way of being wiser than other people. She had known better than he did what he really valued most highly, most deeply desired. Entering the lists against his art she had carried all before her. And his art, beaten by her strength of purpose, weighed in the balance against her and found wanting—his art should not suffer. She would take care of that. She would take care of everything. She would order his life so that there should not be a care or a worry in it. All a bed of rose leaves and not a wrinkled one among them. It was what she was made for, to organise, to control, to make things go as she chose. She could see what was best for people—and she could make them see it, too. She would manage Henry, and with such delicate tact, such consummate skill, that he would never know that he was being managed. Only he would be very happy, and so would she.

How right she had been. How wise, not to let pride or shame or any flimsy false sentiment stand between her and her love. She had taken things into her own hands, her strong, capable hands, and had moulded them as she choose that they should be moulded. She had set out to conquer the world, and behold her world was conquered, at her feet—humble, submissive, adoring.

For now she saw Henry every day—a Henry no longer uncertain and capricious, but one devoted and tender, gentle and loving—the man she had made of that other Henry, the man Henry would always be.

Other people’s stories, too, were moving quickly toward their fairy-tale endings. Other people were preparing, quite definitely and with no nonsense about it, to live happy ever after. Mr. Seddon’s engagement to the Botticellian Madeleine had been from the first a foregone conclusion; still it was pleasant to hear of their assured happiness.

Claud, about whose heart Daphne’s heart had had faint guilty twinges, was now quite evidently at the feet of Columbine, and if Columbine did not think him exactly suitable for that situation—well, that was not Daphne’s fault. At any rate he was not at her feet, and that, of course, was the greatest possible comfort. For the situation at Columbine’s feet there was, apparently, another applicant. Claud’s letters told of a newcomer, a friend of St. Hilary’s.

For shoving his oar in where nobody wants it or him, the brute hasn’t his equal in this round and overcrowded globe. He is staying at the Peal of Bells and I wish he would change his address. The churchyard is only next door. He plays the guitar—thoroughly unmanly, I call it—and sings French songs. Bah. Yah. I hate a fool. The kind of man who’s good at theatricals and fancy dress, and he can play all those loathsome games where you give everyone a pencil and a little bit of paper, and keep saying, ‘Hurry up—you’ve had ten minutes and everyone else has done.’ He has always done. Of course she encourages him—she did that from the very beginning. But I think it is only for fun. That silly idea of his—oh, I forgot I hadn’t told you that. You remember that chauffeur that she smiled at the day we had the picnic? Well—that’s him. It was his motor all the time, bless your dear innocent heart, and when he and St. Hilary saw that you girls thought he was the chauffeur they tipped each other the wink, and played the rotten game out. Columbine thinks it was so romantic and interesting. Bah, Yah, again! St. Hilary, by the way, went to London for the day about a fortnight ago. Since when we have used no other. I mean he’s lost to sight. I wonder whether he’s got run over or run in or run away with. Why didn’t you tell me he was a landed proprietor in these parts? Why don’t you come down and turn that chauffeur’s head? You could, easily. You nearly turned mine once, do you know? There’s a confession for you! But, of course, I knew it was no use, so I choked it down in my strong, stern, silent way. Ah, Daphne, little do you know the depth of a strong man’s agony! We are having a ripping good time if it wasn’t for the beast. Bus car’s number is 566: Only 1 out. What a pity! Do come down. I can’t think what you’re sticking on in town for. We all want you! specially Doris and your despairing admirer and faithful chum,

“

P. S. Duval. I wish I was. The High Toby’s my absolute line. I’d wait for him at the cross-roads with my barkers and my black velvet mask, and shave half his moustache off by the light of the moon. Then he’d have to lie low for at least two months or else shave the other side. In either case a really high-souled youth would then get an innings. No one wears a moustache unless he has some fatal weakness or grossness to conceal. Reflections like this are my only comfort. Now you pack up and come along, because this is where you’re really wanted. See?”

Cousin Jane was the only person to whom Daphne confided the news of her happiness. The Russian being now well again, Miss Claringbold had returned, much against his will, to Fitzroy Street, so that such a confidence became necessary as well as kind.

“I am so glad, dear Daphne,” she said; “it sounds old-fashioned and sentimental, I know, but I do really think mutual affection is the only safe ground for marriage. Your dear father—it is so long ago now dear, that I think I may venture to speak of it without indelicacy—your dear father and I were much attached. At one time we thought our lives would be spent together. But Providence decreed otherwise.”

“I wish it hadn’t,” said Daphne impetuously, throwing herself down by Cousin Jane and laying her round arms across those spare knees. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

“I—it was an affair of honour with your father, my dear,” said Cousin Jane, blushing very pinkly; “Some entanglement, and he thought himself bound to—”

“An entanglement?” said Daphne, slowly, and her arms grew rigid. “With my mother?”

“No, no—my dear child, no. It was quite a different sort of person. He married your mother afterward. Your Aunt Emily—there was a misunderstanding.”

“There’s one now,” said Daphne.

“I don’t think,” said Cousin Jane, “that I ought to say any more.”

“You’ve got to,” said Daphne firmly.

“Well—it doesn’t seem right. But your dear father was weak, my dear, very weak. It was only part of his lovable character. His first wife was very much beneath him in position—a tobacconist’s daughter, I believe, and her character—I am afraid there is no doubt your dear father was entrapped, so to speak. And even after marriage her conduct was so improper that he was compelled to divorce her. Then your Aunt Emily told him that I had said divorced people should not marry again—and perhaps I may have said something like it, but I should not have refused to hear his side of the case. And he married your mother. Your mother was a most charming woman, my dear, and very devoted to him. And he had shown her a good deal of attention—in a friendly way—and then he found she had misunderstood him; and she was very frank and generous, like you, Daphne, and when she found he didn’t—didn’t come forward—she—she thought it was because she was better off than he. And she was, much. So she—well, she practically made him an offer—in her noble, splendid, impetuous way—and he thought he had been to blame, and that he might as well try to make her happy, since he thought I wouldn’t have him. I was at Worthing at the time, governess in a family there. I wish you hadn’t made me tell you all this. I oughtn’t to have done it.”

“You couldn’t help it. I dragged it out of you,” said Daphne. And so she had by corkscrew questions, with keen insistences breaking up very small indeed the thick slab of a speech that you see printed as Cousin Jane’s narrative. “Well, go on. What happened then?”

“Well, then, dear—he was really very fond of your mother—no one could help it. You remind me of her every day. And she was an angel of goodness to him. He became much attached to her.”

“Only he’d rather have had you,” said Daphne, bitterly.

“Oh, my dear! No, indeed. Your father was the soul of honour. I am quite sure that he never gave me a thought after his marriage. It would have been most unsuitable. Only, when he was dying he sent for me, and—and told me things.”

“Don’t cry,” said Daphne, with a sort of impatient gentleness. “Don’t cry. Tell me. What about Doris?”

“I am coming to that,” said Cousin Jane—“no dear, I’m not crying. Well, at the last, you know, he thought he would like to tell me exactly how it all happened. I sat up with him, the last night, and he told me, a bit at a time. I wish you could have heard how he spoke of your mother. He said she was the dearest, noblest, bravest—”

“But she made him marry her when he didn’t want to,” said Daphne.

“Ah, but she didn’t know that. He would have perished sooner than have let her know that. She never knew it. That is a great comfort to me. Well, when they had been married some time, one night very late, he said—but I really don’t know whether I ought to tell you this—it’s hardly”

“I’m not a child,” said Daphne with gentle impatience.

“No, love, of course you’re not. Well, it was his first wife—that he divorced—and she’d come back—in rags, absolute rags, he said—and with a baby—that was Doris.”

“But” said Daphne.

“He took her in, my dear, and your mother took her in—she seemed very ill. They never asked any questions about the baby—whose it was, I mean, or anything. They were too delicate-minded, of course. And they put her to sleep in the best room—and next morning she had gone, with a lot of your mother’s clothes in two portmanteaus, and most of the silver, and all the money out of your father’s bureau. A dreadful woman. They never heard of her again. And she left her dear baby behind. And your mother put it out to nurse, and she would have brought it up herself, like the sweet, brave, noble woman she was. And then your dear mother died.”

“And why didn’t he marry you then?” the girl asked.

“Oh, my dear you must draw the line somewhere. You can’t keep all on marrying people. And besides—we were both old—and But I should have liked to keep house for him. He wished it. Only your Aunt Emily told him it would not be at all the thing. I never knew he had wished it till the end. So you were sent to school. And your father wouldn’t have you home, because he was afraid Doris might find out about her mother. He was weak, dear; that’s what it was, weak.”

“And my mother was strong,” said Daphne, musingly.

“Yes, very strong and splendid. She managed everything so beautifully. Everything seemed to go by clockwork in his house, while she lived.”

“But she made him marry her, when he didn’t want to,” Daphne persisted.

“Don’t dwell on that, dear. I oughtn’t to have told you. And, besides, she did it in that impetuous queenly way of hers. Of course, if she hadn’t been quite sure he wanted to, she would never have done it.”

“Surely she could tell.”

“I should have thought so myself. But I don’t always understand. Gentlemen are different from us, I believe. He admired her very much, he was quite fascinated at one time, but only when she was there, he told me. And when a gentleman sees that a lady has an attachment for him, it seems to lead him on in some curious way that I never could understand to do rash things that he never really intended to do.”

“I see,” said Daphne, and indeed she did see.

“I hope you do see, dear,” Cousin Jane said, anxiously, “that your father and mother both behaved most wonderfully over it. In their different ways they were beautiful characters, both of them. And I could never have managed his house as she did.”

“Jenny, dear,” said Daphne, with sudden tears in her voice, “I do think you’re a saint. To speak of her like that when she simply rushed in and took everything away from you.”

“Not everything, my dear,” said Cousin Jane, feeling for her handkerchief. “It was I who was with him at the end. There was no misunderstanding between us then.”

The girl had got hold of one of the spinster’s hands. Now she laid her face on it and said:

“I do love you for loving him so—I’ve always loved you for it. You know that night we came back from school? I heard you saying good-bye to him. So I’ve known all this time. I thought I ought to tell you now.”

“Oh, Daphne, I did love him. I do love him. I suppose it was very wrong, but I never could leave off loving him, though I used to make it a—a subject of prayer. I needn’t pray against it now any more. He had a bit of my hair in a locket, and kept it all those years; he showed it me that last night.”

They were both crying now, and in each other’s arms. But Daphne’s tears were not all for the other woman.

It was much later in the day that Cousin Jane said:

“Referring to our conversation this morning—dear Daphne, I should like to ask your advice. You are so strong and sensible, and I always from a child found a difficulty in making a decision when two or more courses were open to me. Does it seem to you that it would have been at all outre or unusual for me to keep house for your father?”

“Of course not,” said Daphne, angrily; “that was only Aunt Emily’s hatefulness.”

“I was only thirty-five then,” said Cousin Jane, doubtfully. “Of course I am very much older now. I suppose Doris will live with you when you’re married.”

“Of course,” said Daphne. “Doris will live with me always, whether I’m married or not.”

“Then—if Doris would need me, I wouldn’t think of such a thing. But I have been offered a situation.”

“A situation?” said Daphne. “Nonsense. Uncle Hamley must do something. Or perhaps”

“I—it is unusual in England, but Petia assures me not in Russia. He—in fact, he desires to adopt me as a sister. I believe he really finds me useful.”

“He’s frightfully fond of you, if that’s what you mean,” said the girl, wondering a little all the same, but not giving all her mind to the wonder because half her mind—oh, but much more than half—was busy with a torturing treadmill of its own to which it had been chained for long hours now.

“He is, I believe, attached to me in his affectionate foreign way. He says—you know what queer expressions he uses—that he and I have both been prisoners and so can understand each other. If you approve, dear Daphne, and if Uncle Hamley approves I think I should like to accept his offer. I esteem him very much, and I think I could make him comfortable in quite a lot of little ways. You know, dear, it makes quite a difference, doesn’t it, if you have someone to do things for? Someone who needs you, I mean, and that you’re fond of?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Daphne, heartily. “I’m awfully glad. I think it’s splendid. I didn’t know Russians had so much sense.”

“It isn’t as though we were the same age,” Cousin Jane insisted. “Why, he might almost have been my—my son, if I had ever been married.” And her face was warm and pink.

Daphne made a strong effort and said brightly and lovingly.

“It’s absolutely the one thing that was wanted to complete my happiness—to see you settled in life. And I think your Petia’s the luckiest Russian dog that ever was.”

Daphne sat up very late that night, writing a letter, the cistern applauding maliciously. It took a long time and a great deal of note paper, but it got itself written at last.

It was a pale Daphne with dark rings under her blue eyes, who got up very early and went out with that letter. She carried it to Great Ormonde Street and dropped it herself in the letter box before the postman had begun his rounds.

Then she went back, had breakfast, was quite kindly and cheerfully interested in Cousin Jane’s little doubts and fears and plans and hopes. When breakfast was over she persuaded Cousin Jane to take a day in the country, to see Doris, and to take her the little embroidered dress, now fortunately finished, saw her off at the street door, and then sat down to wait for the answer to her letter.

She made herself sew, as she waited, white daisy flowers on another Doris-frock. She has always been very proud that she was able to sew that day, as she waited. For the answer to her letter was long in coming. She had hoped—she saw now that she had believed—that her lover would himself bring the answer, would indeed in his own proper person be the answer. But as the slow minutes grew into hours she knew that she could not at all know what she might presently have to believe. And still she sewed and sewed. Perhaps he was out—had not had her letter. She told herself that, but she knew he was not out. She was to have gone to his studio at ten to help him in the packing of his pictures for that exhibition. He must be there. He had had the letter. And still she sewed and sewed. The lights and the shadows changed, and the sun went away from the back window and came round to the front and looked through the front window at Daphne still sewing.

And then, when the last daisy petal was worked on the last sleeve and she stood up and stretched out her tired hands, the answer came. By post. It was a thick letter, sealed with that big ring of his.

She had to take it to the window to read it. It might be all right, even now, she told herself. Something might have happened to prevent his coming. This might be only to tell her, as he had done once before, not to be a darling idiot and that he would come for her tomorrow. She read:

“My darling, you are quite right. I ought not to marry. I do not want to marry, not even you—not even you. You see how I love you when I can tell you that and know that you will understand. I never loved anyone as I love you. I never loved you as I love you now—after reading your letter. If any woman in the world could hold me, dear, you could have done it. But no woman can. You can’t. And I adore you for seeing it before I have had time to spoil your life. Dear, brave, generous, little girl. There is no one like you. You must be happy. You will be happy. You don’t really love me. It’s only romance, isn’t it? You’ll soon forget it. Ah, how wise you are!

“I daren’t see you. You know what happens when I see you. The impossible pretends that it’s possible—and I pretend it, too, and so do you.

“Even now—do you know, I’ve written this and torn it up and written it again a dozen times, and walked about the studio, where we’ve been so happy, and cursed and hesitated. But it’s no good. Better end it now than make us both wretched for life. For it wouldn’t last, dear, and then you’d hate me. You’d come between me and my work, and I shouldn’t be able to forgive you for that—not even you. You are the light of my life—but my work is my life. And you understand that. There’s no one like you—no one else would understand.

“I’m off to Paris tonight. Vorontzoff will have to see to that damned exhibition. You might explain to him which of the Embankment pictures we decided to show, and that your portrait’s not to be in at all. At least I think not. I should like to keep it all to myself. All the same it’s the best thing I ever did. Oh, do what you like—what does it matter? Good-bye, my dear little girl, my own little girl. Make haste and forget me. You’ll marry that interfering chap. He loves you as you deserve. He hasn’t got any work, confound him. No—I won’t tear this up. I’ll send it, because it’s what I really mean. Giving you up hurts damnably, Daphne. It won’t hurt you as it hurts me. That’s one comfort. As long as I live I shall honour you for the splendid courage of that letter. You owe your mother that gift anyway.

“I’ll do something fine one of these days and then you won’t be ashamed of having been in my arms once or twice. I wish—I wish I wasn’t such a fool. But I do love you—more’s the pity. But I wasn’t made to love anybody. I was made to work, and by God I’m going to do what I was made for.

“H.”

“Ah,” breathed Daphne softly, “it’s a nicer letter than the other.”

The room was all dark when Cousin Jane stumbled up the stairs. In the darkness she could hear Daphne sobbing.

“My dear,” she called through the darkness, “is that you? What is it? Where are you? And oh, where are the matches?”

“I’m here,” said Daphne, stumbling heavily in the dark. “Where are you? Oh, there isn’t any God; I’ve found that out while you’ve been gone.”

“My dear,” Cousin Jane held something hot and shivering that clung to her, “my dear, what is it?”

Then Daphne laughed.

“Oh, nothing,” she said—“only I’d followed in my mother’s footsteps, and I was going to make a man marry me when he didn’t want to. And I found out in time—that’s all. Oh, hold me, hold me—I’ve been in the dark alone with it for years and years and you’re letting me go. Ah, don’t let me go; there isn’t any floor to the room.”

There was a silence. Then

“Mr. St. Hilary,” said Cousin Jane in a hushed level voice, “would you be so very kind at to strike a lucifer and light the gas. Thank you. No, I can manage perfectly, thank you. She’s very light. If you wouldn’t mind going away—and never let her know I was bringing you in to supper with us tonight?”

Ten minutes later when a man, in the white heat of passion, asked sternly for Mr. Henry, a lady unspeakably musk-scented informed him that Mr. Henry had gone to Paris. “It’s a gay city, so they say,” she added, “but Lord, I dare say he’ll be glad of a change the way the English girls run after him.”