CHAPTER IV.

“Fisher was quite pleased when I asked him if we could get off to Monte Carlo at Whitsuntide for a fortnight,” Walter told Florence a few weeks later.

“Wasn’t he shocked at your gambling propensities?”

“Not a bit. He looked as if he would like to go too; said, in rather a pompous manner”—and Walter imitated his editor exactly—“‘Certainly, certainly; I think, Hibbert, your wife deserves a little treat of some sort after your long absence in the winter, and I am very glad if it is in my power to help you to give it to her.’ He looked like the King of the Cannibal Islands making an Act of Parliament all by himself.”

“You are a ridiculous dear.”

“Thank you, Floggie. Fisher’s a nice old chap, and I am very fond of him.”

“Do you know,” she said, in rather a shocked tone, “Ethel Dunlop said one day that she believed he looked upon himself as a sort of minor providence?”

“Well, he does go about minor-providencing a good deal—which reminds me that he said he was coming, in a day or two, to ask you to take him out to buy a wedding-present for Ethel.”

“He’ll buy her a Crown Derby tea-set, or a sugar-basin with a very large pair of tongs, see if he doesn’t. Ethel said he ought to have married Aunt Anne.”

“He would have been a thousand times better than Wimple. I wonder how those gay young people are getting on at Witley, and whether they want anything more before we start.”

“I think they must be all right at present,” Florence said. “We sent them a good big box of stores when they went to the cottage; and I know you gave her a little money, dear Walter, and we paid up her debts, so that she cannot be worried. Then, of course, she has her hundred a year from Sir William to fall back upon, and Mr. Wimple probably has something.”

“Oh yes, I suppose they are all right; besides, I don’t feel too generous towards that beggar Wimple.”

“I should think not,” Florence said virtuously. “Do you know, Walter, once or twice it has struck me that perhaps he won’t live; he doesn’t look strong, and he is always complaining. Aunt Anne said that he wanted constant change of air.”

“Oh yes, I remember she said Liphook was ‘beneficial’ to him.”

“If he died she would have her allowance, and be free.”

“No such luck,” said Walter. “Besides, if he died, there would be nowhere for him to go to—he’d have to come back again. Heaven wouldn’t have him, and, after all, he isn’t quite bad enough for the devil to use his coals upon.”

“Walter, you mustn’t talk in that way—you mustn’t, indeed;” and she put her hand over his mouth.

“All right,” he said, struggling to get free; “I won’t do it again.”

Mr. Fisher duly arrived the next afternoon. He was a little breathless, though he carefully tried to conceal it, and wore the air of deference, but decision, which he always thought the right one to assume to women. With much gravity he and Florence set out to buy the wedding-present. It resolved itself into a silver butter-dish with a silver cow on the lid, though Florence tried hard to make him choose a set of apostle spoons.

“A butter-dish will be much more useful, my dear lady.”

“It will be very useful,” Florence echoed, though she feared that Ethel would be a little disappointed when she saw the cow.

“And now,” said Mr. Fisher, in a benevolent voice, as they left the silversmith’s in Bond Street, “we are close to Gunters—if you would do me the honour to eat an ice?”

“I will do you the honour with great pleasure.” And she thought to herself, “His manner really is like Aunt Anne’s this afternoon. If she had only married him instead of that horrid Mr. Wimple, we would have called him uncle with pleasure.”

She sat eating her very large strawberry ice, while he tasted his at intervals, as if he were rather afraid of it. “Did the white cockatoo die?” she asked.

He almost started, he was so surprised at the question. “The white cockatoo?”

“You spoke of it last year—that night when Mrs. Baines dined with us.”

“I remember now,” he said solemnly. “Yes; it died, Mrs. Hibbert. For five years it was perhaps my most intimate friend, and the companion of my solitude.”

“Why did it die?”

“It pulled a door-mat to pieces, and we fear it swallowed some of the fibre. My housekeeper, who is a severe woman, beat it with her gloves, and it did not recover.” He spoke as if he were recounting a tragedy, and became so silent that Florence felt she had ventured on an unlucky topic. But it was always rather difficult to make conversation with Mr. Fisher when she was alone with him; there were so few things he cared to discuss with a woman. Politics he considered beyond her, on literary matters he thought she could form no opinion, and society was a frivolity, it was as well not to encourage her to consider too much. Suddenly a happy thought struck her.

“I am so happy about our holiday,” she said; “it is a long time since Walter and I had a real one together.”

“I am delighted that it has been arranged. I feel sure that Walter will enjoy it with so charming a companion,” he answered, with an effort at gallantry that touched her.

“Are you going away this Whitsuntide?” she asked.

“No. I seldom go away from London, or my work.”

“I wish you were going to have a holiday, with some one you liked,” she said.

“My dear lady,” and he gave a little sigh as he spoke, “I fear the only society I am fitted for is my own.”

“Oh no, you are much too modest”—and she tried to laugh. “Some day I hope to buy you a butter-dish. I shall like going to get it so much, dear Mr. Fisher.”

“I think not,” he answered almost sadly.

“Ethel says you have been very kind to her about George,” Florence said in a low voice, for she was almost afraid to refer to it; “but you are kind to everybody.”

Mr. Fisher turned and looked at her with a grateful expression in his clear blue eyes; but she knew that he did not want to make any other answer. Gradually he put on his editorial manner, as if to ward off more intimate conversation, and when he left her at the door of her house, for he refused to come in, she felt, while she looked after him, as if she had been present at the ending of the last little bit of romance in his life.

* * * * *

The Hibberts were in high spirits when they started for their holiday.

“Two days in Paris,” he said, as they drove to the hotel; “and then we’ll crawl down France towards the south, and I will introduce you to the Mediterranean Sea. It’s a pity we can only eat one dinner a night, considering the number of good ones there are to be had here. To be sure, if we manage carefully, we can do a little supper on the Boulevard afterwards; still, that hardly counts. But I don’t think we can stay any longer, dear Floggie, even to turn you into a Parisian.”

Forty-eight hours later saw them in the express for Marseille, where they stayed a night, in order to get the coast scenery by daylight, as they went on to Monte Carlo.

“It’s a wonderful city,” Walter said, with a sigh, as they strolled under the trees on the Prado. “The Jew, and the Turk, and the Infidel, and every other manner of man, has passed through it in his turn. Doesn’t it suggest all sorts of pictures to you, darling?”

“Yes,” she answered, a little absently; “only I was thinking of Monty and Catty.”

“We ought to wait a day, and go to see Monte Christo’s prison.”

“Yes”—but she was not very eager. Her thoughts were with her children. Walter was able to enjoy things, and to garnish them with the right memories. “I wonder if we shall find letters from home when we get to Monte Carlo?” she said.

“I hope so,” he answered gently, but he said no more about the associations of Marseille.

As they were leaving the big hotel on the Cannebière, the next morning, a lady entered it. She had evidently just arrived—her luggage was being carried in.

“I shall be here three nights,” they heard her say to the manageress. “I leave for England on Thursday morning.”

At the sound of her voice Florence turned round, but she had gone towards the staircase. The Hibberts had to catch their train, and could not wait.

“It was Mrs. North, Walter,” Florence said, as they drove to the station; “I wish I could have spoken to her. She looked so lonely entering that big hotel.”

“But there was no time,” he answered; “if we lost our train we should virtually lose a day.”

“I wonder why she has come here?”

“The ways of women are inscrutable.”

“I meant to have written and told her about Aunt Anne, but I had so much to do before we left London that I really forgot it.”

“You might send her a line from Monte Carlo; you heard her say that she was to be at Marseille three days: and then, perhaps, it would be better to leave her alone.”

“I should like to write to her just once, for I am afraid I was not very kind that day; but she took me by surprise.”

“Very well, then; write to her from Monte Carlo. It will give her an idea that we are not such terrible patterns of virtue ourselves, and perhaps she’ll find that a consolation; but I don’t see what more we can do for her. It is very difficult to help a woman in her position. She has put out to sea in an open boat, and, even if she doesn’t get wrecked, every craft she runs against is sure to hurt her.”

* * * * *

The letter was duly written and sent to the hotel at Marseille. It found Mrs. North sitting alone, in her big room on the first floor. She was beside the open window, watching the great lighted _cafés_ and the happy people gathered in little groups round the tables on the pavement.

“Oh, what a pity it is,” she said to herself, “that we cannot remember. I always feel as if we had lived since the beginning and shall go on till the end—if end there is; but if one only had a memory to match, how wonderful it would be. If I could but see this place just once as it was hundreds of years ago, with the Greek people walking about and the city rising up about them. Now it looks so thoroughly awake, with its great new buildings and horrible improvements; but if it ever sleeps, how wonderful its dreams must be. If one could get inside them and see it all as it once was.” . . . She turned her face longingly towards the port, at the far end of the Cannebière. “I am so hungry to see everything, and to know everything,” she said to herself—“so hungry for all the things I have never had.—I wonder if I shall die soon—I can’t go on living like this, longing and waiting and hoping and grasping nothing.—I wish I could see the water. If I had courage I would drive down and look at it—or walk past those people sitting out on the pavement, and go down to the sea. There might be a ship sailing by towards England, and I should know how his ship will look if it, too, ever sails by. Or a ship going on towards India, and I could look after it, knowing that every moment it was getting nearer and nearer to him. To-morrow I will find out precisely where the P. & O.’s sail from for Bombay; then I shall be able to guess what it all looked like when he set his foot on board, a year ago. Oh, thank God, I may think of him a little—that I am free—that it is not wickedness to think of him—or to love him,” she added, with almost a sob.

She got up and looked round the room. It was nearly dark. She could see the outline of the furniture and of her own figure dimly reflected in the long glass of the wardrobe.

“The place is so full of shadows they frighten me; but I am frightened at everything.” She flung herself down again on the couch at the foot of the bed. “I wonder if the people who have always done right ever for a moment imagine that the people who have done wrong can suffer as much—oh, a thousand times more than themselves. They seem to imagine that sin is a sort of armour against suffering, and it does not matter how many blows are administered to those who have gone off the beaten track.” She pillowed her head on her arms and watched the moving reflection of the light from the street. In imagination she stared through it at the long years before her, wondering, almost in terror, how they would be filled. “I am so young, and I may live so long.” There was a knock at her bedroom door.

“Come in,” she cried, thankful for any interruption.

“A letter for Madame.”

“For me!” She seized it with feverish haste and looked at the direction by the window while the candles were being lighted. “I declare,” she said, when the door was closed behind the _garçon_, “it is from the immaculate Mrs. Hibbert. May the saints have guarded her from contamination while she wrote it to me.” Her happy spirits flashed back, and the weary woman of five minutes ago was almost a light-hearted girl again.

“It is rather a nice letter,” she said, and propped up the wicks of the flickering candles with the corner of the envelope. “I believe she wrote merely out of kindness; it proves that there is some generosity in even the most virtuous heart. I’ll write to Mrs. Wimple——” She stopped and reflected for a minute or two. “Poor old lady, she was very good to me; she was like a mother—no woman has called me ‘my love’ since she went away.” She walked up and down the room for a moment, and looked out again at the wide street and the flashing lights. Suddenly she turned, seized her blotting-book, and knelt down by the table in the impulsive manner that characterized her. “I’ll write at once,” she said. “Of course it will shock her sweet old nerves; but I know she’ll be glad to hear from me, though she won’t own it even to herself.”

“DEAREST OLD LADY—

“I have been longing to know what had become of you. I only heard a little while ago that you were a happy bride, and I have just succeeded in getting your address. A thousand congratulations. I hope you are very much in love, and that Mr. Wimple is truly charming. He is, indeed, a most fortunate man and to be greatly envied by the rest of his sex.

“I fear you will be shocked to hear that Mr. North has divorced me. I never loved him, you know. I told you that when you were so angry with me that day in Cornwall Gardens, and it was not my fault that I married him. I have been very miserable, and I don’t suppose I shall ever be happy again. But the world is a large place, and I am going to wander about; I have always longed to see the whole of it: now I shall go to the east and west, and the north and the south, like a Wandering Jewess. But before I start on these expeditions I shall be in England for a few weeks and should like to see you. Would you see me? But I don’t suppose you would come near me or let me go near you, though I should like to put my head down on your shoulder and feel your kind old arms round me again.

“I am afraid you have eaten up all your wedding-cake, dear old lady, and even if you have any left you would, no doubt, think it far too good for the likes of me. I wonder if you would accept a very little wedding-present from me, for I should so much like to send you one? My love to you, and many felicitations to both you and Mr. Wimple.

“Yours always, “E. NORTH.”

When it was finished, her excitement gave way; her spirits ran down; she went, wearily, back to the sofa and pillowed her head on her arms once more. “I wonder what the next incident will be, and how many days and nights it is off.” She shut her eyes, and in thought hurried down the street to the old port. She saw the masts of ships, and the moving water, and the passing lights in the distance. “O God!” she said to herself, “how terrible it is to think that the land is empty for me from end to end. Though I walked over every mile of it, I should never see his face or hear his voice, and there is not a soul in the whole of it that cares one single jot for me. And the great sea is there, and the ships going on and on, and not a soul on board one of them who knows that I live or cares if I die. It frightens me and stuns me, and frightens me again. I am so hungry, and longing, and eager for the utter impossibilities. Oh, my darling, if you had only trusted me; if you could have believed that the sin was outside me and not in my heart; if you had written me just one little line to tell me that some day, even though it were years and years ahead, you would come to me and take me into your life for ever, I would have been so good—I would have made myself the best woman on earth, so that I might give you the best love that ever Heaven sent into a human heart.” There was another knock at the door, and something like a cry escaped from her lips.

“Come in”—and again the _garçon_ entered with a letter. This time it was a thick packet.

“This is also for Madame,” he said; “it is from England.” She waited until the door had closed behind him before she opened it.

The envelope contained a dozen enclosures. They looked like bills and circulars sent on from her London address. Among them was a telegram.

“I suppose it is nothing,” she said, as, with trembling hands, she opened it. It was from Bombay, and contained five words—

“Sailing next month in _Deccan_.”

She fell down on her knees by the table and, putting her face on her hands, burst into passionate weeping.

“O dear God,” she prayed, “forgive me and be merciful to me. I have not meant to do wrong, I have only longed to be happy—let me be so. I will try to do right all my life long, and to make him do right, too—only let him love me still. I have never been happy, and I have suffered so. O dear God, is it not enough? Forgive me and let me be happy.”

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