Wilmay and Other Stories of Women/The Forgiveness of the Dead

dinner-table had been laid, not in the great dining-room, but in the little boudoir. The parlour-maid—a tall, pretty girl—had waited on the two women—hostess and guest. The hostess was Lady Cathay, the guest Mrs. Hubert Vane; both had been detained in London after the London Season was over; both were young (thirty-three in the morning and twenty-nine in the evening), and both were beautiful.

"No men!" said Mrs. Vane solemnly, as she helped herself to four white Muscat grapes.

"None—not even to wait on us. I saw to that. It is our holiday—the feminine equivalent of the bachelor dinner."

"How delightful! I—I don't want to see anything male for some time. When I got your telegram this morning I was overjoyed. I'd thought that I was quite alone in London, and I'm so thankful to Jean Carton for having kept you too."

"Yes, I have to see dear Jean's wedding." Lady Cathay sighed deeply. "It is rather untidy of her to get married in London at the end of August, but I was so fond of her. Poor Jean! I'm sorry that your own reason for waiting is so much more sad."

"Même chose—you wait for a wedding, and I for a funeral."

"Bertha, how shocking! And your Uncle Charles is not dead yet!"

"Precisely; that is why I wait. Do let me speak freely, dear Agnes, even if I am shocking. It is not as if there were any third person present, and I don't think I've spoken the truth for three months; it is such a luxury. I detest Uncle Charles. I don't show it to him, because I do not want to hurt any one's feelings, and one must be specially kind to the dying. I send him fruit, which he can't eat, and flowers, which he doesn't want, and sit by his bedside, which bores him; and he will leave his money to Hubert and me, because there is no one else to whom to leave it; but I detest him quand même."

"Yes, yes," said Lady Cathay fervently; "there is no divine or moral compulsion upon us to love our uncles, and I don't pretend to be very fond of some of mine; but to say that marriage and death are the same thing"

"Well, we are both quite married, you know. Don't you see what I mean? "

Perhaps, a little—you are so strange! Come and tell me about it, dearest."

Lady Cathay rose, with a rustle of grey silk. She was a tall woman, with a good figure and a handsome face. Bertha Vane was a little Gipsy, with a touch of audacity in her dress. With their arms round each others waists, they passed into the drawing-room. It was a chilly evening; the fire had been lit, and the two women sat side by side.

"I don't know if you'll understand," Bertha began. "That's wrong, though—you are very clever, and understand everything that you want to understand. What I meant was, that I didn't know if you would sympathise. We are so different."

The maid entered the room.

"Different? How?" asked Lady Cathay.

"You are going to take your coffee with milk."

"Of course. I always do," said Lady Cathay, with wondering eyes.

"And I have taken mine black, as I always do. There is the whole difference—in one suggestive detail."

"Tell me more' said Lady Cathay gently, as the maid withdrew.

"You are all pearls, and purity, and propriety."

"And prunes and prism," added Lady Cathay, laughing.

"No, no. Prunes-and-prism does not take coffee at all—it keeps her awake. You are pearls and purity—I am sin and sequins."

"You say terrible things of yourself."

"Remember that I have been living in London and have not told the truth for three months. I can only say this to you because you know that I am not wicked. I confess that I think, with most bitter regret, that one day I (who love romance so well) shut the door of romance and locked it upon me, though that day was my wedding-day. I am out of the bright lights, and the sound of the music, and the scent of the flowers. Hubert's good—oh yes, of course he's good; and fond of sport, and reads the newspapers at breakfast; pats my head, kisses my forehead, and goes out humming. And I was adored once! Agnes! Agnes! Cant you see why I said that death and marriage are the same thing? "

"I believe I ought to laugh at you," said Lady Cathay; "only"—she put her hand on Bertha's arm—"you are serious, and it wouldn't be kind. When I said in the other room that I thought I understood you a little, I was thinking of something else—of Jean's wedding to-morrow. I hate, really, to go to a wedding. I know it's silly, and such things must be. But it's a burnt sacrifice of all that's holiest—the victim tricked out in a parcel of finery—the ghastly publicity—the man in a frock-coat, with meaning eyes. Weddings are loathsome—disgusting! They ought to be different. But marriage—afterwards—is beautiful, even though it may be so quiet. It is not like death."

"It is very well for you—you and Edmund get on so well together. And your nature is different."

"You know, Bertha, that you and Hubert also get on very well together."

"We are on friendly terms. Certainly, my music has all gone—I suppose you know that. He has no idea—likes Sullivan's tunes. What was the use of going on when he didn't care? Sport's the only thing. You know why he's away now? Down at Ristoe to get what grouse-shooting he can before Uncle Charles goes out and knocks it on the head. He leaves me alone, for that. With Edmund it's different. The constituency, I suppose"

"Yes, that's it There are so many duties involved."

"He does not leave you for his pleasure, as Hubert leaves me."

"I'm not sure," said Lady Cathay slowly, "that it's not a good thing for husband and wife, even the most devoted, to be separated sometimes. They see their happiness by standing a little way outside it."

"I don't see mine. But, as I said, your nature is different Nothing is possible any more. I am capable of the grand passion still. I might meet a man who adored me, and I might adore him."

"God forbid!" said Lady Cathay fervently.

"Why? It would be beautiful. The grand passion is always beautiful. No amount of conventions and marriages can alter that. You know that in your heart you love Lancelot and despise King Arthur."

"Certainly; I despise the man who loses a woman—and the woman who lets him lose her still more. Besides, autres temps, autres mœurs. Nowadays it's not Malory—it's the newspaper report. The post-matrimonial grand passion cannot be beautiful any longer. It involves everything that's sordid, ugly, painful, revolting."

"I think," Mrs. Vane began—but at that moment the maid entered with a note for her.

"From my housekeeper," said Mrs. Vane, examining the handwriting. "May I?"

"Of course. I am afraid it will be news of your uncle."

"I expect so. One cannot go on dying for ever." She tore the envelope open, and read, "'A messenger has arrived'—Oh yes, from Uncle Charles's—No! no!—'arrived from Ristoe.'"

She stood up, held the note near to the candles on the mantelpiece, and went on reading in silence. Something in her face made Lady Cathay nervous, and she also rose. Mrs. Vane turned to her and said, almost in a whisper—

"It is from Ristoe. There has been an accident."

"Oh!"

"Hubert is dead. He died this afternoon. He was lying dead when I was talking like that."

She sat down again on the sofa, looked into the fire, and suddenly turned away, buried her face in the cushions, and began to laugh and sob hysterically.

inquest was held upon Hubert Vane, and a verdict of accidental death was returned, and his body, following the instructions in his will, was buried with state. Mrs. Vane shut up her house in Hill Street and went away. She spent a month in Sienna and two in Florence. Later in the winter she found that Wiesbaden bored her, and that she had not enough sentiment for Weimar. Returning in the early spring, she wrote to Lady Cathay from Bordighiera—an amusing letter. For the summer she proposed for herself Pontresina, tried it, and abandoned it (together with her mourning apparel). Then the clear air of the Austrian Tyrol sufficed her until, in the winter, she left Salzburg for Paris.

In the mean time, Bertha Vane was not entirely forgotten in England. Lady Cathay thought often of her. Still more often a man thought about her, a man who had met her only once in his life, a month before her husband's death, when he had taken her in to dinner at Lady Cathay's house. His name was Gilbert Sherley, and Mrs. Vane never thought about him for a moment, and had ceased to be conscious of his existence.

Lady Cathay had in many letters pressed her friend to come back to England, but it was not till the end of November that Bertha gave way. She was seized with a sudden longing for everything English. She had bought extravagant and exquisite clothing until she was tired of buying, and it was plain to her that she needed nothing more of Paris. But she pined to hear language spoken without gesture, to see and smell a typical London fog, to watch a London 'bus-driver getting his horses through the traffic at the Circus, and even to pick up again some threads of old acquaintanceship, and weave them back into her life. For, after all, one goes on living, and the worst shock wears itself out Hatred, love, disgust, all pass, and the chief thing that she had won from her wandering in many dry places was that her attention had been distracted, while the shock had slowly lost force—the shock that she had received on a chill morning early in September, when, sitting before the fire, she had opened and read two letters addressed to a dead man.

So Agnes and Bertha met again. They kissed, and stared hard at each other, and broke into a torrent of light question and answer that touched nothing serious. Bertha was to dine on the following day, that was understood. She would meet Mr. Gilbert Sherley again? She remembered him? Very vaguely.

"My dear!" exclaimed Lady Cathay, "you can't think how much he remembers you. And please don't quarrel, because you are both to come to Rosend for the Christmas week."

"What is he like? Tell me about him."

"Thirty-six; handsome, and fairly modest for a man—all men brag, you know."

"They do."

"I believe he lost a considerable part of his fortune some years ago—he was rather a rip then, and I saw very little of him. He lives quietly enough now, and is to marry and to go into Parliament. Edmund thinks highly of him—says that we are certain to hear of him one of these days."

"And when am I to marry him?"

"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Lady Cathay, and was on the point of declaring that she had never thought of it, when it occurred to her that of late she had thought of it seriously. So she laughed and spoke of other things.

And on the following day, for the second time in her life, Gilbert Sherley took Mrs. Vane in to dinner. She had not recognised him from Lady Cathay's description, but she recalled him as soon as she saw him. Indeed, he was a sufficiently striking figure, well-built, standing six foot three. Lady Cathay had said nothing of his personal appearance, except that he was handsome—and with that Mrs. Vane disagreed. She found it a strong face, undoubtedly, but ugly—well, yes, an attractive ugliness. As for his modesty, that was charming. He seemed able to talk of any subject except himself; his manner conveyed real respect and reference. The impression which he made upon Bertha was good, and nothing more than that. Subsequently, she realised, with a shade of annoyance, that she had been led to talk of herself and her travels during the whole of dinner-time.

Lady Cathay went to Hill Street the next afternoon, and Bertha gave orders that she was at home to no one else.

"I haven't said half everything to you yet," Bertha exclaimed. "We must have a long talk. First, have I changed?"

"You are as maliciously pretty as ever, and look younger, and I feel that I don't know you so well."

"That last must be altered. It is only because I haven't said half everything yet. I don't feel that you are changed, or that I know you less well. You are still serene, and beautiful, and good—a rule by which the tempest-tost, like myself, may correct their mistakes. Tell me, what would you think of me if I were to marry again?"

"I think," said Lady Cathay, speaking slowly and with decision, "that you would be right. You cannot live alone all your days, and you must not spoil the whole of your life for a vain regret. Hubert himself would never have wished"

"Hubert? I was not thinking of him. Often, for months, I never think of him at all."

"Bertha!" exclaimed Lady Cathay. This was too callous.

"I think I must tell you. I haven't told anybody else. You know the remorseless way that the postman for days and days goes on bringing letters for a man who is dead? That happened when Hubert died. I opened them. Two of them were from a woman. You—you understand? I needn't?"

"Oh, poor Bertha! Yes, you needn't go on. I understand—I had never guessed that. How shall I tell you how sorry I am? "

"Don't pity me, or I shall begin to cry. I don't want to cry any more—I've had enough tears for all my life. Do you know that I went to see that woman? It was awful!—she seemed to think that she had been badly treated, and kept hinting that she wanted money. I've sent her out of the country—she would do anything I told her as long as she was paid for it. But as for Hubert, I've shut out that part of my life now. I don't think about it more than I can help."

"Yes, yes. Don't think about it."

"Do you remember that night when I got the news of Hubert's death? I talked stupidly to you about marriage. I was mad and restless. I suspected nothing, but I knew that I was not loved, and I must be loved. All marriage is not like that?"

"No, dear. You must forget all this. There is great happiness possible for you still—you must find it."

"Perhaps, one day. Not yet. I am not ready yet."

Later in the afternoon Lady Cathay referred to Gilbert Sherley. "It's a confession," she said, "but to tell the truth, I had thought—well, his admiration of you is so frankly sincere, so unconcealed."

Mrs. Vane shook her head. "I don't think I should ever marry him," she said,

In the course of the next fortnight she met him frequently, and felt less certain of herself—it was pleasant, at any rate, to be adored, not to feel that love had left one entirely.

At Rosend Lady Cathay watched, and was well pleased. All was going well. Gilbert Sherley gained day by day. On Dec. 23 a telegram summoned him to London on business; he was to return on the following day, and he left behind him a note for Mrs. Hubert Vane.

came to Bertha's room that night, and heard the news.

"And what will you say?" she asked, in breathless excitement.

"I don't know. It has happened too quickly. I'm frightened, I think. Sometimes I feel as if I hated him—sometimes as if I were glad. If he would wait"

"I am sure he would do anything you asked him. There is plenty of time."

"Then—if he would wait until it wasn't all so strange to me—yes, I think, yes."

Bertha came down to breakfast very late next morning. She looked utterly worn-out—pale, with dark lines under her eyes. She smiled and answered questions mechanically. Lady Cathay watched her anxiously.

It was a fine morning, and the rest of the party at Rosend spent it out-of-doors. Bertha excused herself on the plea of a headache, and Lady Cathay said that she should stop with her. As soon as they were alone, Agnes began at once—

"Bertha, quick! what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"No, I'm not ill. I'm not even unhappy—not any more now—except because you will think that I've behaved badly. I can't marry him. I shall never marry again. I know it for certain. Dear, I want to go away before he comes back. May I? I don't want to see him again."

"But why? What has happened? What can have happened?"

"I will tell you. I thought last night about it, and I began—I began to compare—this with the first time. It was horrible. Then, when I went to sleep at last, I dreamed that I was being married to him. Everything was happy in the dream at first, and very vivid—why, I could sketch for you every detail of the dress that I wore, and of the dress that you wore. You were there, sitting in the front on the north side of the aisle. There was a crowd of people and music. There were flowers too—flowers everywhere. Then the usual scene in the vestry, signing names. After that everything was vague until the moment when he and I stepped into the carriage and drove away. Then" She paused and shut her eyes, and her face was contracted with horror. Lady Cathay crossed over and sat down beside her on the sofa, and took her hand.

Bertha's eyes opened again, wide now and staring, and she went on—

"He held his hat in one hand. It was a new, shining hat, with a little mark on one side where the fluff had been rubbed the wrong way. I was looking at it, and wondering how it had been done, when I felt his other hand on my waist. My heart began to beat so that I could hardly breathe as he drew me towards him. He bent over me to kiss me, and, looking up, I saw the colour of the hair change, and the face change. Agnes, hold my hands tightly. It was not his face any more. It was Hubert looking down at me as—as he did at that time."

"It was only a dream," said Lady Cathay, moved somewhat from her customary serenity. "You must not let such things affect you. At present you are frightened"

"No, not now. I was frightened then—the horror woke me—but I am not frightened any more. Only it has brought back the Hubert that loved me, very clearly. My heart, and my mind, and my eyes are full of him. The rest—what happened afterwards—has become vague and unreal to me, already half forgotten and quite forgiven. You cannot think how dear and tender to me Hubert was when we went away together. I remember it all—the railway-carriage running smoothly, green fields gliding past, Hubert looking at me—myself in a happy dream."

There were tears in Lady Cathay's eyes; Bertha smiled happily as she spoke.

"Does it seem a despicable thing to you for me, a woman, to forgive that—to forgive it and go on living?"

"Not now."

"No, it can't be. He is dead, and one must forgive the dead. They can't hurt one any more—it sounds funny said like that. But it's sad to think that they can't love one any more. … I don't want to think of sad things. I love Hubert."

Lady Cathay was singularly dull at luncheon that day for so accomplished a host. Mrs. Vane had been telegraphed for—had to hurry back to London. She had asked Lady Cathay to say good-bye for her. When Sherley arrived, he had a long talk with Lady Cathay alone. He took his part very well in the Christmas festivities which followed. Being a modest man, he did not feel himself justified in spoiling the pleasure of others by his private trouble. He worried more about Bertha than himself—thought it bad for her to be alone.

But she was not, it seemed to herself, altogether alone this Christmas. In her thoughts Hubert had come back again.