Part 5

‘I never thought I felt like this till to-day; I didn’t realise it before: it has come upon me suddenly. It is as if I had been swimming about in beautiful blue water, and suddenly found myself being sucked down by a whirlpool.’

‘Don’t you think we had better ask mamma about it? I really don’t know what to advise.’

‘Not on any account. Swear to me you will not breathe a word of this to any one. I shall get over it. Don’t be afraid. See now, I will bathe my eyes and come upstairs.’

Geraldine soon effaced all traces of her emotion, except a slight redness about the whites of her eyes, and the two sisters went on deck.

Robert Potter had in the meantime communicated the news to Lady Kirkdale, who was sitting under a large Japanese umbrella looking unusually perturbed. Geraldine took her place under the awning and was soon surrounded with a group of merrymakers, and she laughed and talked and picnicked, drank champagne, and made feeble jokes, quite as gaily as the rest. However, directly she got back to the hotel she told her mother her head ached. She went and shut herself up in her room. Here she wrote the following letter:--

‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I am so sorry, so very sorry, for what has happened. I have been afraid you were in money difficulties for some time. Will you give me the happiness of helping you out of them? Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I don’t believe in society, or any of its laws. I enclose twenty-five pounds in notes, hoping you will accept them as a proof that I will do anything I can to extricate you from the difficulties in which you are involved.--Yours always sincerely, ‘GERALDINE FITZJUSTIN.’

She took the letter to the post herself. It was almost the first time in her life she had left the house unattended. She felt that every one must know what she was doing, that she was being watched, and that the post-office clerk guessed the reason of her sending a registered letter. At last she completed the business, and putting the tell-tale little flimsy receipt-paper in her purse, she hurried back to the hotel. Just as she entered it she encountered Lord Kirkdale and Mr. Clausen, who had that moment arrived.

‘Out alone, Lady Geraldine?’

‘Yes, what is one to do when one’s brother deserts one like this?’

‘Your maid?’

‘Gone out herself; she didn’t expect us back so soon, I suppose; we have been on board the _Sunflower_ all the afternoon, you know.’

‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Kirkdale as they entered the private sitting-room.

‘Yes; what has become of Mr. Travers? Is he at Old Windsor?’

‘He is.’

She sighed with relief.

‘Clausen and I went down yesterday and arranged to get his wife something to do.’

‘His wife!’

‘Oh! didn’t you know that he was married? I thought you said you had heard the news.’

‘Married? married? When? who to?’

‘About three months ago: a most beautiful girl. You may have heard of her--Grace Lovell--she was an actress.’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Geraldine, in a bewildered tone. ‘What did you say? Why didn’t he tell us?’

‘I can’t say. It’s all very ugly, on the face of it; and I tell you what, Geraldine, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s one of the biggest villains on earth. I did you all a terrible wrong in bringing him to the house. I have to ask your forgiveness.’

She looked at her brother a long time, and the tears gathered in her eyes; then she turned away, and hastily entered her own room. Here she found her maid laying out her clothes for the evening.

‘Never mind now, Elizabeth, I want to lie down quietly.’ As she spoke she crossed to her writing-desk and her eyes fell on a sheet of note-paper on which she had scribbled the first wild words that had come into her head when she sat down to write to George Travers. There they were, staring her in the face, ‘My dearest, dearest one on earth, I have heard of your ruin. Come and let me see you once more. I will give you all I have to enable you to----’; then she had stopped herself and written the more moderate note for his eyes, leaving her real passionate words, the words which had been the expression of her inmost feelings, for the eyes of her maid.

She turned to look at the woman, but found she was calmly taking her wrapper out of the wardrobe. Had she seen or not? No trace was visible on her face. Geraldine sat down in front of the glass, and said, ‘You can wash my head, Elizabeth; I think it will refresh me.’

The woman made all the preparations. While she had gone for hot water, Geraldine seized the incriminating note and tore it into a thousand pieces. She had just time to thrust it behind the grate and walk quietly across the room when the maid re-entered. Her eye fell for a moment on the writing-table. ‘She has read it,’ thought Geraldine. She sat quite still for a long time; then she said, ‘What should you say if I were to marry Lord Foreshort after all, Elizabeth?’

Elizabeth started visibly.

‘I should hope your ladyship would be very happy, I’m sure.’

‘Why were you so surprised?’

‘I didn’t think your ladyship seemed willing to take him before.’

There was a long pause while her hair was washed, and Elizabeth was rubbing vigorously when Lady Geraldine said, ‘How is your poor sister now?’

‘The one that was deceived so cruelly?’

‘Yes. The one that fell in love with a married man.’

‘Well, your ladyship, I didn’t like to tell you after all your kindness to her in finding her that place and all, but I’m very much afraid she’s gone off to America with him.’

‘Really! She has done that, has she?’

‘I was afraid your ladyship would be annoyed, so I didn’t mention it. But she disappeared, and some time afterwards I had a letter from her, telling me about how he had got a bit of land out in Canada, and she had joined him there.’

‘And what were they doing?’

‘I’m sorry to say, they seemed doing very well; she wrote most bright and cheerful like. I must beg your ladyship’s pardon for saying it, but they do say the wicked flourish like green bay trees, don’t they, your ladyship?’

‘I suppose they do, sometimes; but don’t be sorry they are happy, Elizabeth.’

‘No, your ladyship.’

‘Elizabeth, I want you to bring all the letters that come for me into my bedroom. Tell the waiter to give them to you.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘You’d better have that black silk petticoat; it will be nice and cool for you to wear, and I shall keep to white all the rest of the summer.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘Now I will lie down; don’t let me be disturbed until it is time to dress for dinner.’

‘No, your ladyship.’

* * * * *

‘A telegram for your ladyship,’ said Elizabeth as Geraldine entered her bedroom about twelve o’clock next morning to get ready for a stroll on the beach.

‘All right. I shall not want you for a minute or two.’ Elizabeth discreetly left the room.

She opened the brown envelope, took out the flimsy pink paper, and read, ‘Have started for Portsmouth. Will write. Travers.’

That she could not prevent, that she could do nothing to stop, him coming was a thought that filled her with exultation. He was getting nearer and nearer every moment; and what was more, she was to have a letter from him--it would arrive that evening by the last post perhaps; if not, certainly in the morning. Then she thought of his being married, but it made no difference; she knew he had married before he saw her, that was all that really mattered to her. She rang for Elizabeth, and crushing the telegram up put it into the front of her dress. She dressed, and went out in the highest spirits. She was charming to every one, and made herself so agreeable that Lord Foreshort felt quite encouraged. He said, ‘How well this climate agrees with you!’

‘Doesn’t it. It is exactly the sort of place I like: plenty of life about, and at the same time everything is clean, and spick and span.’

‘It’s perfect. Our tastes are so alike.’

‘You are always saying that, Lord Foreshort.’

‘I am always thinking it, Lady Geraldine.’

‘Then you have no time to think about your tastes?’

‘No, I am always thinking of yours.’

‘So am I.’

‘There, I told you we agreed.’

‘Well, that’s settled. Now let us talk of something else.’

‘When will you begin to let me hope.’

‘You are hoping now, are you not?’

‘Do you really mean it?’

‘Mean what?’

‘That I may hope?’

‘I can’t prevent you hoping, can I?’

‘Yes, you know you can.’

‘Well, I’ve tried to a good many times.’

‘But you will give up trying now, won’t you? Take another tack.’

‘Very well. You have hoped without my permission the whole of the London season; you can hope with my permission during the shooting season, then perhaps you will be sick of hope.’

‘Yes, I shall claim my reward then.’

‘Ah! that’s “another story.” We mustn’t get on too fast.’

That evening the expected letter arrived. It ran thus--

‘DEAR LADY GERALDINE,--You have restored my belief in the human race. I have indeed received a crushing blow from your brother-in-law, and it is not fitting that I should inform you of the true facts of the case. Honour seals my lips. But although it is forbidden to me to justify myself in your eyes without degrading those who must ever be first in your esteem, your generous letter emboldens me to ask you to believe me, on my bare word, that things are not as they, no doubt, have been represented to you. I am coming to Portsmouth so as to hold myself in readiness to obey any commands you may care to issue to your most devoted adorer, ‘GEORGE TRAVERS.’

Geraldine wondered a good deal over this letter, but all the same she wore it next her heart for four days. She wrote in reply--

‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I can’t think of any way of seeing you here, but next Monday we go to our place near Ringwood. If you will put up at the village hotel there, I will write and let you know what I can arrange.--Yours most sincerely, ‘G. F.’

On Sunday she took a long walk with a party of friends. She and Mr. Clausen were ahead. Mr. Clausen knew the island well, and had undertaken to act as pioneer. By degrees she led the conversation to the subject which occupied so many of her thoughts, and Clausen found himself giving her a full account of what had taken place at Old Windsor the previous Monday.

‘Kirkdale and I went down to Datchet and drove to Old Windsor: there we found Mrs. Travers occupying a little cottage, pretty enough in its way, but only fit for a labouring man,--the chairs covered and windows hung with white dimity, an old oak settle, and so on. You know the kind of thing.’

‘What is she like?’

‘An exceedingly pretty, dark, slight woman. She is very young; but she gives you an extraordinary impression of knowing her own mind at moments.’

‘What is her version of their life together?’

‘She spoke of nothing but her great desire to go on the stage again; he has been preventing her doing so, all this time. They appear to have been exceedingly happy together otherwise.’

‘Do you believe he really loves her?’

‘He must have, I should think; there seems to have been no other reason why he should marry her?’

‘He may have liked her at first, but perhaps she is a shallow sort of person. I should think he wanted a very deep nature to sympathise with him.’

‘I don’t think she is shallow; but you mustn’t forget, when you talk of depth of character, the thinnest sheet of gold-leaf is a good deal more valuable than a whole bogful of mud.’

‘And is she going back to the stage now?’

‘We promised to arrange it for her. Horsham is a great friend of mine. She made her success with him, and he was delighted to hear she was ready to come back again; but now----’

‘What?’ said Lady Geraldine.

‘Well, I fear her husband has found out what a little gold-mine she may become. She wrote to me yesterday, saying he had been coaching her in some leading parts, and proposed touring with her in the States if he can get some capital to start them.’

‘But isn’t he fearfully hard up now?’

‘A man like that is never without resources; if he cannot get money out of men, he can get it out of women.’

‘O Mr. Clausen, how dreadful that sounds!’

‘Lady Geraldine, I beg your pardon. I should not have said such a thing to you; forgive me.’

‘No, Mr. Clausen, I beg of you, don’t think I am so absurd; girls hear of all sorts of things nowadays. I want to know what you really think Mr. Travers will do.’

‘He will do anything that he thinks most likely to bring in a quick return.’

‘But what is his object? His tastes are so fastidious. I cannot imagine his being content to mix with actors and actresses for the rest of his life, they are such flashy, noisy people. Whenever one sees any very disagreeable set at Henley or Lords, one is always told they are actresses.’

‘Yes, that is the phrase, of course; still, in justice to the profession, I must say that a great many actresses go about quite as dowdily as the royal family. There is no distinctive badge which can be applied to all the members of the profession.’

‘But I cannot imagine Mr. Travers tolerating anything that isn’t in the best taste.’

‘He no doubt prefers everything about him to be of the best; but as he has effectually cut himself off from it by being twice caught in the act of cheating at cards, he will have to satisfy himself with the second best now.’

‘Tell me what is a man’s real feeling about this cheating at cards. Why is it the most terrible sin he can commit? It seems to me, from hearing people talk, that it is quite possible to break every one of the commandments without losing a single acquaintance, but directly you commit this particular crime the whole world cuts you.’

‘I will explain. You know among the Arabs there is another unwritten law, that you may kill or destroy the property of any man who annoys you; but if you have once eaten salt with him, you must hold your hand, whatever provocation you may receive. All these things are a sign of a bond that exists between certain members of the community. Cards are to the European what salt is to the Arabian. They are the sacred symbol of fidelity; and any man who does not feel this must be cast out.’

‘But why? it seems such an arbitrary thing.’

‘I can’t help that. We have all been brought up to believe that it is a beastly thing to betray our friends; and a man must be regarded as a friend from the moment you sit down to a game of chance with him.’

‘Well, I don’t believe I shall ever understand; but perhaps women have no moral sense.’

‘Exactly what I have always said, Lady Geraldine. The only safe place for a woman is under lock and key, and even then you ought to stop up the keyhole with sealing-wax.’

‘It is because we are kept under lock and key that we don’t care what we do. We feel we are unjustly treated, and that we have a perfect right to cheat, and lie, and prevaricate. It is the only means of retaliation we have. Oh, I wonder if the time will ever come when we shall get fair play.’

‘No, it will not; I can tell you that much. No man or woman, from the Queen down to the beggar who spends the night on a doorstep, gets fair play. There isn’t a single human being in all the world who hasn’t been kept back from doing all he might by other people, or by circumstances of one sort or another. This place is meant for a struggle; and the only way to get through it comfortably is to cultivate a taste for struggling.’

‘I’m sure you know you needn’t say that to me, Mr. Clausen.’

‘Yes, you struggle a little--too much, in fact; for the secret of all success is to discern the difference between the possible and the impossible. Turn your back on the impossible, and make steadily for the possible.’

‘O Mr. Clausen, how wise you sound now! I wish I had been there to see when you were young.’

‘I wish you had. You would no doubt have found me quite foolish enough to please you then.’

‘And did you turn your back on the impossible?’

‘Yes.’

‘And are you glad you did?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, I knew that.’

‘It is perfectly true, a temptation resisted gives you no pleasure; but that does not prevent a temptation yielded to giving you an inevitable retribution.’

‘Oh, that sounds so like a copy-book, I am sure it can’t be true.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mr. Clausen, can’t you understand what it is when a girl grows up and finds out bit by bit everything she has been taught and told is a pack of lies.’

‘But surely your mother----’

‘No, no, it isn’t my mother; it’s the governesses, it’s the nurses, it’s the silly novels, it’s other girls. It makes me shudder when I think what a world of shams I’m living in, and what a sham I am myself.’

‘My dear child, I fear I have only one consolation to offer you, and that is, that you would shudder a good deal more if you for one moment saw the truths which underlie these shams.’

‘You talk as if the world was a pest-house. Surely we are some of us beautiful; we are not all diseased and horrible.’

‘One hears a good deal about the beauty of life; but I am very much afraid you will find in the long run that the beauty of life is like the beauty of a lady’s complexion--very fleeting, or else sham.’

‘There I have cornered you, Mr. Clausen. There’s a beauty about a gypsy’s skin which isn’t fleeting, and which is very real; and it is beautiful, just because it is exposed to the sun and the rain. In a word, freedom is beauty, and gives beauty.’

‘Well, perhaps there’s something in what you say; but I don’t think you’d find gypsies very satisfactory companions at close quarters.’

‘I should like to get a chance of seeing for myself.’

‘Take my advice, and don’t. I am sure your tastes are too fastidious for such realities as that,’ said Mr. Clausen, laughing. Here the rest of the party came up, conversation ceased, and chatter reigned in its stead.

* * * * *

Lady Geraldine’s mind was much perturbed by her conversation with Clausen. She doubted Travers, but felt she must see him, she must get some sort of proof herself. Poor girl! after all her outcry, she was only a very ordinary woman, wrapped up in her own little chaos of emotions and foolish little thoughts. She thought it would be a splendid thing to sacrifice herself for love. Mediocrity was her bugbear, just as it has been the bugbear of thousands of other mediocre people, and she was ready to take the most desperate measures to escape from it. The only way she could think of to show how different she was from the rest of her sex was to cultivate her instincts and let them lead her whither they would. To overcome the world and remain a slave to your own passions has been the ideal of all the splendid failures of history, but she only recognised their splendour, and did not stop to consider their defeat. So, with her mind strung up to a high pitch of romantic passion, Lady Geraldine went to meet Travers in the Kirkdale woods.

She found him leaning against a tree cleaning a horseshoe he had just picked up. His little fox-terrier was running about smelling the rabbit-holes and following trails with a suspicious and preoccupied air, as if he was not quite sure whether these joys were permitted to him or not. He ran forward to see who Geraldine was, and licked her hand; then he hung his head and ran back to his master and sat down by his side. Travers looked up; he had not seen Geraldine approach, and he said, ‘So you have actually come to see the last of the poor outcast.’

‘Is it the last? Is it true that you are going to America to act?’

He started a little, wondering how this could have come to her knowledge, but recovered himself quickly. ‘There seems nothing else left for me to do.’

‘But if there was?’

‘I would gladly take the alternative.’

‘I thought so; I didn’t believe you could willingly take up that sort of life.’

‘Indeed you are right there. What an angel you are to come here like this! I can’t think how I deserved such a thing.’

‘I don’t know whether you deserve it or not, and I don’t care much: I have come because I love you, and because--’

He took the hand she held out to him and kissed it; she put her other hand round his neck, and he kissed her lips. Then feeling he had done all that was expected of him, he was about to gallantly release her, when he found she was almost fainting in his arms.

‘By George, this is serious,’ he murmured, and he led her to a felled tree, sat her down on it, and went to look for some water. When he returned he found she was calmer.

He had a little pocket flask with him and had filled the cup with water. She refused to drink, but dipped her finger in it and wiped her forehead. Then he sat down by her side, and she leant on his shoulder and said--

‘What shall we do? Will you come away from England with me, or shall we stay here?’

‘Whichever you think best; your wishes are my law.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you exactly how I stand. I have eight hundred pounds a year now, and shall have four hundred pounds a year more when mamma dies. It is settled on me, and they cannot take it from me whatever I do.’

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘in the hands of trustees, I suppose.’

‘Yes, that is the worst of it: I cannot touch the capital.’

‘But, dear Lady Geraldine, have you ever considered what it would be for two people to try and live on eight hundred pounds a year?’

‘I know it would be very difficult, but I am willing to try anything if it will save you from that dreadful life. We could take a flat in Venice or Florence, and you would have to be divorced; then we could be married, and no one would mind in a few years.’

‘I am sure you would regret it, if you took such a step.’