The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy


She was wearing a blue wrap over her evening frock, and he seized
instinctively on that indifferent trifle to begin this talk.

"Ah! Babs, have you been out?"

Alive to her very finger-nails, with every nerve tingling, but showing no
sign, Barbara answered:

"No; on the roof of the tower."

It gave her a real malicious pleasure to feel the perplexity beneath her
father's dignified exterior. And detecting that covert mockery, Lord
Valleys said dryly:

"Star-gazing?"

Then, with that sudden resolution peculiar to him, as though he were
bored with having to delay and temporize, he added:

"Do you know, I doubt whether it's wise to make appointments in
confectioner's shops when Ann is in London."

The dangerous little gleam in Barbara's eyes escaped his vision but not
that of Lady Valleys, who said at once:

"No doubt you had the best of reasons, my dear."

Barbara curled her lip. Had it not been for the scene they had been
through that day with Miltoun, and for their very real anxiety, both
would have seen, then, that while their daughter was in this mood, least
said was soonest mended. But their nerves were not quite within control;
and with more than a touch of impatience Lord Valleys ejaculated:

"It doesn't appear to you, I suppose, to require any explanation?"

Barbara answered:

"No."

"Ah!" said Lord Valleys: "I see. An explanation can be had no doubt from
the gentleman whose sense of proportion was such as to cause him to
suggest such a thing."

"He did not suggest it. I did."

Lord Valleys' eyebrows rose still higher.

"Indeed!" he said.

"Geoffrey!" murmured Lady Valleys, "I thought I was to talk to Babs."

"It would no doubt be wiser."

In Barbara, thus for the first time in her life seriously reprimanded,
there was at work the most peculiar sensation she had ever felt, as if
something were scraping her very skin--a sick, and at the same time
devilish, feeling. At that moment she could have struck her father dead.
But she showed nothing, having lowered the lids of her eyes.

"Anything else?" she said.

Lord Valleys' jaw had become suddenly more prominent.

"As a sequel to your share in Miltoun's business, it is peculiarly
entrancing."

"My dear," broke in Lady Valleys very suddenly, "Babs will tell me. It's
nothing, of course."

Barbara's calm voice said again:

"Anything else?"

The repetition of this phrase in that maddening, cool voice almost broke
down her father's sorely tried control.

"Nothing from you," he said with deadly coldness. "I shall have the
honour of telling this gentleman what I think of him."

At those words Barbara drew herself together, and turned her eyes from
one face to the other.

Under that gaze, which for all its cool hardness, was so furiously alive,
neither Lord nor Lady Valleys could keep quite still. It was as if she
had stripped from them the well-bred mask of those whose spirits, by long
unquestioning acceptance of themselves, have become inelastic,
inexpansive, commoner than they knew. In fact a rather awful moment!
Then Barbara said:

"If there's nothing else, I'm going to bed. Goodnight!"

And as calmly as she had come in, she went out.

When she had regained her room, she locked the door, threw off her cloak,
and looked at herself in the glass. With pleasure she saw how firmly her
teeth were clenched, how her breast was heaving, and how her eyes seemed
to be stabbing herself. And all the time she thought:

"Very well! My dears! Very well!"




CHAPTER XXV

In that mood of rebellious mortification she fell asleep. And, curiously
enough, dreamed not of him whom she had in mind been so furiously
defending, but of Harbinger. She fancied herself in prison, lying in a
cell fashioned like the drawing-room at Sea house; and in the next cell,
into which she could somehow look, Harbinger was digging at the wall with
his nails. She could distinctly see the hair on the back of his hands,
and hear him breathing. The hole he was making grew larger and larger.
Her heart began to beat furiously; she awoke.

She rose with a new and malicious resolution to show no sign of
rebellion, to go through the day as if nothing had happened, to deceive
them all, and then--! Exactly what 'and then' meant, she did not explain
even to herself.

In accordance with this plan of action she presented an untroubled front
at breakfast, went out riding with little Ann, and shopping with her
mother afterwards. Owing to this news of Miltoun the journey to Scotland
had been postponed. She parried with cool ingenuity each attempt made by
Lady Valleys to draw her into conversation on the subject of that meeting
at Gustard's, nor would she talk of her brother; in every other way she
was her usual self. In the afternoon she even volunteered to accompany
her mother to old Lady Harbinger's in the neighbourhood of Prince's Gate.
She knew that Harbinger would be there, and with the thought of meeting
that other at 'five o'clock,' had a cynical pleasure in thus encountering
him. It was so complete a blind to them all! Then, feeling that she was
accomplishing a masterstroke; she even told him, in her mother's hearing,
that she would walk home, and he might come if he cared. He did care.

But when once she had begun to swing along in the mellow afternoon, under
the mellow trees, where the air was sweetened by the South-West wind, all
that mutinous, reckless mood of hers vanished, she felt suddenly happy
and kind, glad to be walking with him. To-day too he was cheerful, as if
determined not to spoil her gaiety; and she was grateful for this. Once
or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve, calling his
attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all those hours of
bitter feelings, to be giving happiness. When they parted at the door of
Valleys House, she looked back at him with a queer, half-rueful smile.
For, now the hour had come!

In a little unfrequented ante-room, all white panels and polish, she sat
down to wait. The entrance drive was visible from here; and she meant to
encounter Courtier casually in the hall. She was excited, and a little
scornful of her own excitement. She had expected him to be punctual, but
it was already past five; and soon she began to feel uneasy, almost
ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. Going to the
window, she looked out.

A sudden voice behind her, said:

"Auntie Babs!".

Turning, she saw little Ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel
eyes. A shiver of nerves passed through Barbara.

"Is this your room? It's a nice room, isn't it?"

She answered:

"Quite a nice room, Ann."

"Yes. I've never been in here before. There's somebody just come, so I
must go now."

Barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed
with her niece into the hall. At the very door the footman William
handed her a note. She looked at the superscription. It was from
Courtier. She went back into the room. Through its half-closed door the
figure of little Ann could be seen, with her legs rather wide apart, and
her hands clasped on her low-down belt, pointing up at William her sudden
little nose. Barbara shut the door abruptly, broke the seal, and read:
"DEAR LADY BARBARA,

"I am sorry to say my interview with your brother was fruitless.

"I happened to be sitting in the Park just now, and I want to wish
you every happiness before I go. It has been the greatest pleasure
to know you. I shall never have a thought of you that will not be my
pride; nor a memory that will not help me to believe that life is
good. If I am tempted to feel that things are dark, I shall remember
that you are breathing this same mortal air. And to beauty and joy'
I shall take off my hat with the greater reverence, that once I was
permitted to walk and talk, with you. And so, good-bye, and God
bless you.
"Your faithful servant,
"CHARLES COURTIER."

Her cheeks burned, quick sighs escaped her lips; she read the letter
again, but before getting to the end could not see the words for mist.
If in that letter there had been a word of complaint or even of regret!
She could not let him go like this, without good-bye, without any
explanation at all. He should not think of her as a cold, stony flirt,
who had been merely stealing a few weeks' amusement out of him. She
would explain to him at all events that it had not been that. She would
make him understand that it was not what he thought--that something in
her wanted--wanted----! Her mind was all confused. "What was it?" she
thought: "What did I do?" And sore with anger at herself, she screwed the
letter up in her glove, and ran out. She walked swiftly down to
Piccadilly, and crossed into the Green Park. There she passed Lord
Malvezin and a friend strolling up towards Hyde Park Corner, and gave
them a very faint bow. The composure of those two precise and
well-groomed figures sickened her just then. She wanted to run, to fly
to this meeting that should remove from him the odious feelings he must
have, that she, Barbara Caradoc, was a vulgar enchantress, a common
traitress and coquette! And his letter--without a syllable of reproach!
Her cheeks burned so, that she could not help trying to hide them from
people who passed.

As she drew nearer to his rooms she walked slower, forcing herself to
think what she should do, what she should let him do! But she continued
resolutely forward. She would not shrink now--whatever came of it! Her
heart fluttered, seemed to stop beating, fluttered again. She set her
teeth; a sort of desperate hilarity rose in her. It was an adventure!
Then she was gripped by the feeling that had come to her on the roof.
The whole thing was bizarre, ridiculous! She stopped, and drew the letter
from her glove. It might be ridiculous, but it was due from her; and
closing her lips very tight, she walked on. In thought she was already
standing close to him, her eyes shut, waiting, with her heart beating
wildly, to know what she would feel when his lips had spoken, perhaps
touched her face or hand. And she had a sort of mirage vision of
herself, with eyelashes resting on her cheeks, lips a little parted, arms
helpless at her sides. Yet, incomprehensibly, his figure was invisible.
She discovered then that she was standing before his door.

She rang the bell calmly, but instead of dropping her hand, pressed the
little bare patch of palm left open by the glove to her face, to see
whether it was indeed her own cheek flaming so.

The door had been opened by some unseen agency, disclosing a passage and
flight of stairs covered by a red carpet, at the foot of which lay an
old, tangled, brown-white dog full of fleas and sorrow. Unreasoning
terror seized on Barbara; her body remained rigid, but her spirit began
flying back across the Green Park, to the very hall of Valleys House.
Then she saw coming towards her a youngish woman in a blue apron, with
mild, reddened eyes.

"Is this where Mr. Courtier lives?"

"Yes, miss." The teeth of the young woman were few in number and rather
black; and Barbara could only stand there saying nothing, as if her body
had been deserted between the sunlight and this dim red passage, which
led to-what?

The woman spoke again:

"I'm sorry if you was wanting him, miss, he's just gone away."

Barbara felt a movement in her heart, like the twang and quiver of an
elastic band, suddenly relaxed. She bent to stroke the head of the old
dog, who was smelling her shoes. The woman said:

"And, of course, I can't give you his address, because he's gone to
foreign parts."

With a murmur, of whose sense she knew nothing, Barbara hurried out into
the sunshine. Was she glad? Was she sorry? At the corner of the street
she turned and looked back; the two heads, of the woman and the dog, were
there still, poked out through the doorway.

A horrible inclination to laugh seized her, followed by as horrible a
desire to cry.




CHAPTER XXVI

By the river the West wind, whose murmuring had visited Courtier and
Miltoun the night before, was bringing up the first sky of autumn.
Slow-creeping and fleecy grey, the clouds seemed trying to overpower a
sun that shone but fitfully even thus early in the day. While Audrey
Noel was dressing sunbeams danced desperately on the white wall, like
little lost souls with no to-morrow, or gnats that wheel and wheel in
brief joy, leaving no footmarks on the air. Through the chinks of a side
window covered by a dark blind some smoky filaments of light were
tethered to the back of her mirror. Compounded of trembling grey
spirals, so thick to the eye that her hand felt astonishment when it
failed to grasp them, and so jealous as ghosts of the space they
occupied, they brought a moment's distraction to a heart not happy. For
how could she be happy, her lover away from her now thirty hours, without
having overcome with his last kisses the feeling of disaster which had
settled on her when he told her of his resolve. Her eyes had seen deeper
than his; her instinct had received a message from Fate.

To be the dragger-down, the destroyer of his usefulness; to be not the
helpmate, but the clog; not the inspiring sky, but the cloud! And because
of a scruple which she could not understand! She had no anger with that
unintelligible scruple; but her fatalism, and her sympathy had followed
it out into his future. Things being so, it could not be long before he
felt that her love was maiming him; even if he went on desiring her, it
would be only with his body. And if, for this scruple, he were capable
of giving up his public life, he would be capable of living on with her
after his love was dead! This thought she could not bear. It stung to
the very marrow of her nerves. And yet surely Life could not be so cruel
as to have given her such happiness meaning to take it from her! Surely
her love was not to be only one summer's day; his love but an embrace,
and then--for ever nothing!

This morning, fortified by despair, she admitted her own beauty. He
would, he must want her more than that other life, at the very thought of
which her face darkened. That other life so hard, and far from her! So
loveless, formal, and yet--to him so real, so desperately, accursedly
real! If he must indeed give up his career, then surely the life they
could live together would make up to him--a life among simple and sweet
things, all over the world, with music and pictures, and the flowers and
all Nature, and friends who sought them for themselves, and in being kind
to everyone, and helping the poor and the unfortunate, and loving each
other! But he did not want that sort of life! What was the good of
pretending that he did? It was right and natural he should want, to use
his powers! To lead and serve! She would not have him otherwise: With
these thoughts hovering and darting within her, she went on twisting and
coiling her dark hair, and burying her heart beneath its lace defences.
She noted too, with her usual care, two fading blossoms in the bowl of
flowers on her dressing-table, and, removing their, emptied out the water
and refilled the bowl.

Before she left her bedroom the sunbeams had already ceased to dance, the
grey filaments of light were gone. Autumn sky had come into its own.
Passing the mirror in the hall which was always rough with her, she had
not courage to glance at it. Then suddenly a woman's belief in the power
of her charm came to her aid; she felt almost happy--surely he must love
her better than his conscience! But that confidence was very tremulous,
ready to yield to the first rebuff. Even the friendly fresh--cheeked maid
seemed that morning to be regarding her with compassion; and all the
innate sense, not of 'good form,' but of form, which made her shrink from
anything that should disturb or hurt another, or make anyone think she
was to be pitied, rose up at once within her; she became more than ever
careful to show nothing even to herself. So she passed the morning,
mechanically doing the little usual things. An overpowering longing was
with her all the time, to get him away with her from England, and see
whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not fire him with
love of the things she loved. As a girl she had spent nearly three years
abroad. And Eustace had never been to Italy, nor to her beloved mountain
valleys! Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple broke in on
that vision, and shattered it. No Titian's feast of gentian, tawny
brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those
papers, that great map. And the scent of leather came to her now as
poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her
business of nursing. Then there rushed through her again the warm
wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of love
that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the
delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought, and
movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine,
irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The
remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of how
she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him.

The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the
afternoon! She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the
whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that
the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she
said: "Won't you sit down?"

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory
of her garden, at Monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of
summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this little
figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face. Those
carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often haunted her
thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.

"My grandson is not here, is he?"

Audrey shook her head.

"We have heard of his decision. I will not beat about the bush with you.
It is a disaster for me a calamity. I have known and loved him since he
was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. I
wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. You must
forgive an old woman's coming here like this. At my age there are few
things that matter, but they matter very much."

And Audrey thought: "And at my age there is but one thing that matters,
and that matters worse than death." But she did not speak. To whom, to
what should she speak? To this hard old woman, who personified the
world? Of what use, words?

"I can say to you," went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed
so to fill the room with its grey presence, "what I could not bring
myself to say to others; for you are not hard-hearted."

A quiver passed up from the heart so praised to the still lips. No, she
was not hard-hearted! She could even feel for this old woman from whose
voice anxiety had stolen its despotism.

"Eustace cannot live without his career. His career is himself, he must
be doing, and leading, and spending his powers. What he has given you is
not his true self. I don't want to hurt you, but the truth is the truth,
and we must all bow before it. I may be hard, but I can respect sorrow."

To respect sorrow! Yes, this grey visitor could do that, as the wind
passing over the sea respects its surface, as the air respects the
surface of a rose, but to penetrate to the heart, to understand her
sorrow, that old age could not do for youth! As well try to track out
the secret of the twistings in the flight of those swallows out there
above the river, or to follow to its source the faint scent of the lilies
in that bowl! How should she know what was passing in here--this little
old woman whose blood was cold? And Audrey had the sensation of watching
someone pelt her with the rind and husks of what her own spirit had long
devoured. She had a longing to get up, and take the hand, the chill,
spidery hand of age, and thrust it into her breast, and say: "Feel that,
and cease!"

But, withal, she never lost her queer dull compassion for the owner of
that white carved face. It was not her visitor's fault that she had
come! Again Lady Casterley was speaking.

"It is early days. If you do not end it now, at once, it will only come
harder on you presently. You know how determined he is. He will not
change his mind. If you cut him off from his work in life, it will but
recoil on you. I can only expect your hatred, for talking like this, but
believe me, it's for your good, as well as his, in the long run."

A tumultuous heart-beating of ironical rage seized on the listener to
that speech. Her good! The good of a corse that the breath is just
abandoning; the good of a flower beneath a heel; the good of an old dog
whose master leaves it for the last time! Slowly a weight like lead
stopped all that fluttering of her heart. If she did not end it at once!
The words had now been spoken that for so many hours, she knew, had lain
unspoken within her own breast. Yes, if she did not, she could never
know a moment's peace, feeling that she was forcing him to a death in
life, desecrating her own love and pride! And the spur had been given by
another! The thought that someone--this hard old woman of the hard
world--should have shaped in words the hauntings of her love and pride
through all those ages since Miltoun spoke to her of his resolve; that
someone else should have had to tell her what her heart had so long known
it must do--this stabbed her like a knife! This, at all events, she
could not bear!

She stood up, and said:

"Please leave me now! I have a great many things to do, before I go."

With a sort of pleasure she saw a look of bewilderment cover that old
face; with a sort of pleasure she marked the trembling of the hands
raising their owner from the chair; and heard the stammering in the
voice: "You are going? Before-before he comes? You-you won't be seeing
him again?" With a sort of pleasure she marked the hesitation, which did
not know whether to thank, or bless, or just say nothing and creep away.
With a sort of pleasure she watched the flush mount in the faded cheeks,
the faded lips pressed together. Then, at the scarcely whispered words:
"Thank you, my dear!" she turned, unable to bear further sight or sound.
She went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass, trying
to think of nothing. She heard the sound of wheels-Lady Casterley had
gone. And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she
experienced the worst: She could not cry!

At this most bitter and deserted moment of her life, she felt strangely
calm, foreseeing clearly, exactly; what she must do, and where go.
Quickly it must be done, or it would never be done! Quickly! And without
fuss! She put some things together, sent the maid out for a cab, and sat
down to write.

She must do and say nothing that could excite him, and bring back his
illness. Let it all be sober, reasonable! It would be easy to let him
know where she was going, to write a letter that would bring him flying
after her. But to write the calm, reasonable words that would keep him
waiting and thinking, till he never again came to her, broke her heart.

When she had finished and sealed the letter, she sat motionless with a
numb feeling in hands and brain, trying to realize what she had next to
do. To go, and that was all!

Her trunks had been taken down already. She chose the little hat that he
liked her best in, and over it fastened her thickest veil. Then, putting
on her travelling coat and gloves, she looked in the long mirror, and
seeing that there was nothing more to keep her, lifted her dressing bag,
and went down.

Over on the embankment a child was crying; and the passionate screaming
sound, broken by the gulping of tears, made her cover her lips, as though
she had heard her own escaped soul wailing out there.

She leaned out of the cab to say to the maid:

"Go and comfort that crying, Ella."

Only when she was alone in the train, secure from all eyes, did she give
way to desperate weeping. The white smoke rolling past the windows was
not more evanescent than her joy had been. For she had no illusions--it
was over! From first to last--not quite a year! But even at this moment,
not for all the world would she have been without her love, gone to its
grave, like a dead child that evermore would be touching her breast with
its wistful fingers.




CHAPTER XXVII

Barbara returning from her visit to Courtier's deserted rooms, was met at
Valleys House with the message: Would she please go at once to Lady
Casterley?

When, in obedience, she reached Ravensham, she found her grandmother and
Lord-Dennis in the white room. They were standing by one of the tall
windows, apparently contemplating the view. They turned indeed at sound
of Barbara's approach, but neither of them spoke or nodded. Not having
seen her grandfather since before Miltoun's illness, Barbara found it
strange to be so treated; she too took her stand silently before the
window. A very large wasp was crawling up the pane, then slipping down
with a faint buzz.