with an old friend, in a place which Carrie and her parents had lived in when she was a baby, near to the town where she was born. She knew already that her mother was from Westmoreland, from a place called Keswick; but she understood that her mother’s father was dead, and all her people scattered.
Until they came actually in sight of the cottage, the child had betrayed no memory of her own; though as they entered Langdale her chatter ceased, and her eyes sped nervously from side to side, considering the woods and fells and whitewashed farms. As they stopped, however, at the foot of the steep pitch leading to the little house, Carrie suddenly caught sight of it–the slate porch, the yew-tree to the right, the sycamore in front. She changed colour, and as she jumped down, she wavered and nearly fell.
And without waiting for the others she ran up the hill and through the gate. When she met them again at the house-door, her eyes were wet.
‘I’ve been into the kitchen,’ she said, breathlessly–‘and it’s so strange! I remember sitting there, and a man’–she drew her hand across her brow–‘a man, feeding me. That–that was father?’
Phoebe could not remember how she had answered her; only some trembling words from Anna Mason, and an attempt to draw the child away–that her mother might enter the cottage alone and unwatched. And she had entered it alone–had walked into the little parlour.
The next thing she recollected–amid that passion of desperate tears which had seemed to dissolve her, body and soul–were Carrie’s arms round her, Carrie’s face pressed against hers.
‘Mother! mother! Oh! what is the matter? Why did we come here? You’ve been keeping things from me all these weeks–for years even. There is something I don’t know–I’m sure there is. Oh, it _is_ unkind. You think I’m not old enough–but I am. Oh! you ought to tell me, mother!’
How had she defended herself? staved off the inevitable once again? All she knew was that Miss Anna had again come to the rescue, had taken the child away, whispering to her. And since then, in these last forty-eight hours–oh! Carrie had been good! So quiet, so useful–unpacking their clothes, helping Miss Anna’s maid with the supper, cooking, dusting, mending, as a Canadian girl knows how–only stopping sometimes to look round her, with that clouded, wondering look, as though the past invaded her.
Oh! she was a darling! John would see that–whatever he might feel towards her mother. ‘I stole her–but I’ve brought her back. I may be a bad wife–but there’s Carrie! I’ve not neglected her–I’ve done the best by her.’
It was in incoherent, unspoken words like this that Phoebe was for ever pleading with her husband, even now.
Presently, in her walk about the room, she came to stand before the mantelpiece, where a photograph had been propped up against the wall by Carrie–of a white walled farm, with its out-buildings and orchards–and, gleaming beneath it, the wide waters of Lake Ontario. Phoebe shuddered at the sight of it. Twelve years of her life had been wasted there.
Carrie, indeed, took a very different view.
Restlessly the mother left her room and wandered into Carrie’s. It was already–by half-past nine–spotlessly clean and neat; and Eliza, the girl from Hawkshead, had not been allowed to touch it. On the bed lay a fresh ‘waist,’ which Carrie had just made for herself, and on the dressing-table stood another photograph–not a place this time, but a person–a very evident and very good-looking young man!
Phoebe stood looking at it forlornly. Carrie’s young romance–and her own spoilt life–these two images held her. Carrie would go back, in time, across the sea–would marry, would forget her mother.
‘And I’m not old, neither–I’m not old.’
Trembling she left the room. The door of Miss Anna’s was open. Phoebe stood on the threshold, looking in. It had been her room and John’s in the old days. Their very furniture was still there–as in the parlour, too. For John had sold it all to their landlord, when he wound up affairs. Miss Anna knew even what he had got for it–poor John!
She dared not go in. She stood leaning against the door-post, looking from outside, like one in exile, at the low-raftered room, with its oak press, and its bed, and its bit of green carpet. Thoughts passed through her mind–thoughts which shook her from head to foot.
The cottage was now enlarged. Miss Mason, when she took it on lease three years before this date, had built two new rooms, or got the Hawkshead landlord to build them. She had retired now, on her savings; and there lived with her an old friend, a tired teacher like herself. It was one of those spinster marriages–honourable and seemly _menages_–for which the Lakes have always been famous. But Miss Wetherby was now away, visiting her relations in the South. Had she been there, Phoebe could never have made up her mind to accept Miss Anna’s urgent invitation. She shrank from everybody–strangers, or old acquaintance–it was all one. The terror which ranked, in her mind, next to the disabling, heart-arresting terror of the first meeting with her husband, was that of the first moment when she must discover herself to her old acquaintance in Langdale or Elterwater–in Kendal or Keswick–as Phoebe Fenwick. She had arrived, closely veiled, as ‘Mrs. Wilson,’ and she had never yet left the cottage door.
Then again she caught her breath, remembering that at that very moment Carrie was learning her true name from Miss Anna–was realising that she had seen her father without knowing it–was hearing the story of what her mother had done.
‘Perhaps she’ll hate me!’ thought Phoebe, miserably. Through the window came the soft spring air. The big sycamore opposite was nearly in full leaf, and in the field below sprawled the helpless, new-born lambs, so white beside their dingy mothers. The voice of the river murmured through the valley, and sometimes, as the west wind blew stronger, Phoebe’s fine and long-practised ear could distinguish other and more distant sounds, wafted from the leaping waterfalls which threaded the ghyll, perhaps even from the stream of Dungeon Ghyll itself, thundering in its prison of rocks. It was a characteristic Westmoreland day, with high grey cloud and interlacing sun, the fells clear from base to top, their green or reddish sides marked with white farms or bold clumps of fir; with the blackness of scattered yews, landmarks through generations; or the purple-grey of the emerging limestone. Fresh, lonely, cheerful–a land at once of mountain solitude, and of a long-settled, long-humanised life–it breathed kindly on this penitent, anxious woman; it seemed to bid her take courage.
Ah! the sound of a horn echoing along the fell. Phoebe flew down to the porch; then, remembering she might be seen, perhaps recognised, by the postman, she stepped back into the parlour, listening, but out of sight.
The servant, who had run down to fetch the letters, seemed to be having something of an argument with the postman. In a few minutes she reappeared, breathless.
‘There’s no letters, mum,’ she said, seeing Phoebe at the parlour window–‘and I doan’t think this has owt to do here.’ She held up a telegram, doubtfully–yet with an evident curiosity and excitement in her look. It was addressed to ‘Mrs. John Fenwick.’ The postman had clearly made some remark upon it.
Phoebe took it.
‘It’s all right. Tell him to leave it.’
The girl, noticing her agitation and her shaking fingers, ran down the hill again to give the message. Phoebe carried the telegram upstairs to her room, and locked the door.
For some moments she dared not open it. If it said that he refused to come?–that he would never see her again? Phoebe felt that she should die of grief–that life must stop.
At last she tore it open:
Sending messenger to-day. Hope to follow immediately. Welcome.
She gasped over the words, feeling them in the first instance as a blow–a repulse. She had feared–but also she had hoped–she scarcely knew for what–yet at least for something more, something different from this.
He was not coming, then, at once! A messenger! What messenger could a man send to his wife in such a case? Who knew them both well enough to dare to come between them? Old fiercenesses woke up in her. Had the word been merely cold and unforgiving it would have crushed her indeed; but there was that in her which would have scarcely dared complain. An eye for an eye–no conscience-stricken creature but admits the wild justice of that.
But a ‘messenger’!–when she that was lost is found, when a man’s wife comes back to him from the dead! Phoebe sat voiceless, the telegram on her lap, a kind of scorn trembling on her lip.
Then her eye caught the word ‘welcome,’ and it struck home. She began to sob, her angry pride melting. And suddenly the door of her room opened, and there on the threshold stood Carrie–Carrie, who had been crying, too–with wide, startled eyes and flushed cheeks. She looked at her mother, then flew to her, while Phoebe instinctively covered the telegram with her hand.
‘Oh, mother! mother!–how could you? And I _laughed_ at him–I did–I _did_!’ she cried, wringing her hands. ‘And he looked so tired! And on the way home Amelie mimicked him–and his voice–and his queer ways; and I laughed. Oh, what a beast I was! Oh, mother, and I told you his name, and you never–never–said a word!’
The child flung herself on the floor, her feet tucked under her, her hands clasped round her knees, swaying backwards and forwards in a tempest of excited feeling, hardly knowing what she said.
Phoebe looked at her, bewildered; then she removed her hand, and Carrie saw the telegram. She threw herself on it, read the address, gulping, then the words:
‘A messenger!’ She understood that no more than her mother. It meant a letter, perhaps? But she fastened on ‘immediately’–‘welcome.’
And presently–all in a moment–she leapt to her feet, and began to dance and spring about the room. And as Phoebe watched her, startled and open-mouthed, wondering if this was all the reproach that Carrie was ever going to make her, the flushed and joyous creature came and flung her arms round Phoebe’s neck, so that the fair hair and the brown were all in a confusion together, and the child’s cheek was on her mother’s.
‘Mummy!–and I was only five, and you weren’t so very old–only seven years older than I am now–and you thought father was tired of you–and you went off to Canada right away. My!–it was plucky of you–I will say that for you. And if you hadn’t gone, I should never have seen George. But–oh, mummy, mummy!’–this between laughing and crying–‘I do guess you were just a little fool! I guess you were!’
Miss Anna sat downstairs listening to the murmur of those hurrying voices above her in Phoebe’s room. She was darning a tablecloth, with the Manchester paper beside her; and she sat peculiarly erect, a little stern and pinched,–breathing protest.
It was extraordinary how Carrie had taken it. These were your Canadian ways, she supposed. No horror of anything–no shyness. Looking a thing straight in the face, at a moment’s notice–with a kind of humorous common sense–refusing altogether to cry over spilt milk, even such spilt milk as this–in a hurry, simply, to clear it up! A mere metaphorical refusal to cry, this–for, after all, there had been tears. But the immediate rebound, the determination to be cheerful, though the heavens fell, had been so amazing! The child had begun to laugh before her tears were dry–letting loose a flood of sharp, shrewd questions on her companion; wondering, with sparkling looks, how ‘George’ would take it; and quite refusing to provide that fine-drawn or shrinking sentiment, that ‘moral sense,’ in short, with which, as it seemed to the elder woman, half-hours of this quality in life should be decently accompanied. Little heathen! Miss Anna thought grimly of all the precautions she had taken to spare the young lady’s feelings–of her own emotions–her sense of a solemn and epoch-making experience. She might have saved her pains!
But at this point the door upstairs opened, and the ‘little heathen’ descended presently to the parlour, bringing the telegram. She came in shyly, and it might perhaps have been seen that she was conscious of her disgrace with Miss Anna. But she said nothing; she merely held out the piece of pink paper; and Miss Anna, surprised out of her own ‘moral sense,’ fell upon it, hastily adjusting her spectacles to a large and characteristic nose.
She read it frowning. A messenger! What on earth did they want with such a person? Just like John!–putting the disagreeables on other people. She said to herself that one saw where the child’s levity came from.
‘It’s nice of father, isn’t it?’ said Carrie, rather timidly, touching the telegram.
‘He’d better have come himself,’ said Miss Anna, sharply.
‘But he is coming!’ cried Carrie. ‘He’s only sending a letter–or a present–or something–to smooth the way–just as George does with me. Well, now then’–she bent down and brought her resolute little face close to Miss Anna’s–‘where’s he to sleep?’
Miss Anna jumped, pushed back her chair, and said, coldly, ‘I’ll see to that.’
‘Because, if he’s going into my room,’ said Carrie, thoughtfully, ‘something’ll have to be done to lengthen that bed. The pillow slips down, and even I hung my feet out last night. But, if you’ll let me, I could fix it up–I could make that room real nice.’
Miss Anna told her to do what she liked. ‘And where’ll you sleep to-night, pray?’
‘Oh, I’ll go in to mother.’
‘There’s a second bed in my room,’ said Miss Anna, stiffly.
‘Ah! but that would crowd you up,’ said the girl, softly; and off she went.
Presently there was a commotion upstairs–hammering, pulling, pushing.
Miss Anna wondered what on earth she was doing to the bed.
Then, Phoebe came down, white and fluttered enough to satisfy the most exacting canons. Miss Anna tried not to show that she was dissatisfied with the terms of the telegram, and Phoebe did not complain. But her despondency was very evident, and Miss Anna was extremely sorry for her. In her restlessness she presently said that she would go out to the ghyll and sit by the water a little. If anybody came, they were to shout for her. She would only be a stone’s throw from the house.
She went away along the fell-side, her head drooping–so tall and thin, in her plain dress of grey Carmelite and her mushroom hat trimmed with black.
Miss Anna looked after her. She knew very little indeed, as yet, of what it was that had really brought the poor thing home. Her own fault, no doubt. Phoebe would have poured out her soul, without reserve, on that first night of her return to her old home. But Miss Anna had entirely refused to allow it. ‘No, no!’ she had said, even putting her hand on the wife’s trembling lips; ‘you shan’t tell me. Keep that for John–it’s his right. If you’ve got a confession–it belongs to _John_!’
On the other hand, of the original crisis–of the scene in Bernard Street, the spoilt picture, and the letters of Madame de Pastourelles–Miss Anna had let Phoebe tell her what she pleased; and in truth–although Phoebe seemed to be no longer of a similar opinion–it appeared to the ex-schoolmistress that John had a good deal to explain–John and the French lady. If people are not married, and not relations, they have no reasonable call whatever to write each other long and interesting letters. In spite of her education and her reading, Miss Anna’s standards in these respects were the small, Puritanical standards of the English country town.
The gate leading to the steep pitch of lane opened and shut. Miss Anna rose hastily and looked out.
A lady in black entered the little garden, walked up to the door, and knocked timidly. Was this the ‘messenger’? Miss Anna hurried into the little hall.
‘Is Mrs. Fenwick in?’ asked a very musical voice.
‘Mrs. Fenwick is sitting a little way off on the fell,’ said Miss Anna, advancing. ‘But I can call her directly. What name, please?’
The lady took out her card.
‘It’s a French name,’ she said, with smiling apology, handing it to Miss Anna.
Miss Anna glanced at it, and then at the bearer.
‘Kindly step this way,’ she said, pointing to the parlour, and holding her grey-capped head rather impressively high.
Madame de Pastourelles obeyed her, murmuring that she had sent her carriage on to the Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, whence it would return for her in an hour.
Eugenie had made her first speech–her first embarrassed explanation. She and Miss Anna sat on either side of the parlour table, their eyes on each other. Eugenie felt herself ill at ease under the critical gaze of this handsome, grey-haired woman, with her broad shoulders and her strong brows. She had left London in hurry and agitation, and was, after all, but very slenderly informed as to the situation in Langdale. Had she inadvertently said something to set this formidable-looking person against her and her mission?
On her side Miss Anna surveyed the delicate refinement of her visitor; the black dress so plain, yet so faultless; the mass of brown hair, which even after a night’s railway journey was still perfectly dressed, no doubt by the maid without whom these fine ladies never venture themselves abroad; the rings which sparkled on the thin fingers; the single string of pearls, which alone relieved the severity of the black bodice. She noticed the light, distinguished figure, the beauty of the small head; and her hostility waxed within her. John’s smart friend belonged to the pampered ones of the earth, and Miss Anna did not intend to be taken in by her, not for a moment.
‘Mr. Fenwick has been terribly overworked,’ Eugenie repeated, colouring against her will, ‘and yesterday he was quite broken down by your letter. It seemed too much for him. You will understand, I’m sure. When a person is so weak, they shrink–don’t they?–even from what they most desire. And so he asked me–to–to come and tell Mrs. Fenwick something about his health, and his circumstances these last two years–just to prepare the way. There is so much–isn’t there?–Mrs. Fenwick cannot yet know; and I’m afraid–it will pain her to hear.’
The speaker’s voice faltered and ceased. She felt through every nerve that she was in a false position, and wondered how she was to mend it.
‘Do I understand you that John Fenwick is coming to see his wife to-night?’ said Miss Mason at last, in a voice of battle.
‘He arrives by the afternoon train,’ said Eugenie, looking at her questioner with a slight frown of perplexity.
‘What is the matter with him?’ said Miss Anna, dryly.
Eugenie hesitated; then she bent forward, the colour rushing again into her cheeks.
‘I think’–her voice was low and hurried, and she looked round her to see that the door was shut and they were really alone–‘I think it has been an attack of depression–perhaps–perhaps melancholia. He has had great misfortunes and disappointments. Unfortunately, my father and I were abroad, and did not understand. But, thank God!’–she clasped her hands involuntarily–‘I got home yesterday–I went to see him–just in time–‘
She paused, looking at her companion as though she asked for the understanding which would save her further words. But Miss Anna sat puzzled and cold.
‘Just in time?’ she repeated.
‘I didn’t understand at first,’ said Eugenie, with emotion; ‘I only saw that he was ill and terribly broken. But he has told me since–in a letter I got just before I started. And I want you to advise me–to tell me whether you think Mrs. Fenwick should know–‘
‘Know what?’ cried Miss Anna.
Madame de Pastourelles bent forward again, and said a few words under her breath.
Anna Mason recoiled.
‘Horrible!’ she said; ‘and–and so cowardly! So like a man!’
Eugenie could not help a tremulous smile; then she resumed:
‘The picture had come–just come. It was that which saved him. Ah, yes’–the smile flashed out again–‘I had forgotten! Of course Mrs. Fenwick must know! It was the picture–it was _she_ that _saved_ him. But your note, by some strange accident, had escaped him. It had fallen out, among some other papers on the floor–and he was nearly beside himself with disappointment. I was lucky enough to find it and give it him. But oh! it was pitiful to see him.’
She shaded her eyes with her hand a moment, waiting for composure. Miss Anna watched her, the strong mouth softening unconsciously.
‘And so, when he asked me to come and see his wife first–to tell her about his troubles and his breakdown–I felt as if I could not refuse–though, of course, I know’–she looked up appealingly–‘it may well seem strange and intrusive to Mrs. Fenwick. But perhaps when she understands how we have all been searching for her these many months–‘
‘Searching!’ exclaimed Miss Anna. ‘Who has been searching?’
Her question arrested her companion. Eugenie drew herself more erect, collecting her thoughts.
‘Shall we face the facts as they are?’ she said at last, quietly. ‘I can tell you very shortly how the case stands.’
Miss Anna half-rose, looked at the door, sat down again.
‘Mrs. Fenwick, you understand, may return at any time!’
‘I will be very short. We must consult–mustn’t we?–for them both?’
Timidly, her eyes upraised to the vigorous old face beside her, Eugenie held out her delicate hand. With a quick, impulsive movement, wondering at herself, Miss Anna grasped it.
A little while later Miss Anna emerged from the parlour. She went upstairs to find Carrie.
Carrie was sitting beside the open door of her room, calmly ripping up a mattress. The bed behind her had been substantially lengthened, apparently by the help of a packing-case in which Mrs. Fenwick had brought some of her possessions across the Atlantic. A piece of white dimity had been tacked round the packing-case.
‘Carrie, what on earth are you doing?’ cried Miss Anna, in dismay.
‘It’s all right,’ said Carrie–‘I’m only making it over. It’s got lumpy.’ Then she laid down her scissors, flushed, and looked at Miss Anna. ‘Who’s that downstairs?’
‘It’s a lady who wants to see your mother. Will you go and fetch her?’
‘Father’s “messenger”?’ cried Carrie, springing up, and breathing quick.
Miss Anna nodded.
‘Your mother should be very grateful to her,’ she said, in rather a shaky voice.
Carrie put on her hat in silence, and descended. The door of the parlour was open, and between it and the parlour window stood the strange lady, staring at the river and the fell opposite, apparently deep in thought.
At the sound of the girl’s step Eugenie turned.
‘Carrie!’ she cried, involuntarily–‘you are Carrie!’ And she came forward, impetuously holding out both her hands. ‘How like the picture–how like!’
And Eugenie gazed in delight at the small, slight creature, so actively and healthily built, in spite of her fairy proportions, at the likeness to Fenwick in hair and skin, at the apple-freshness of her colour, the beauty of her eyes, the lightness of her pretty feet.
Twelve years!–and then to find _this_, dropped into your arms by the gods–this living, breathing promise of all delight! Deep in Eugenie’s heart there stirred the pang of her own pitiful motherhood, of the child who had just flickered into life, and out of it, through one summer’s day.
She shyly put her arm round the girl.
‘May I,’ she said, timidly–‘may I kiss you?’
Carrie, with down-dropped eyes, a little grave, submitted.
‘I am going to tell my mother. Father sent you, didn’t he?’
Eugenie said ‘Yes’ gently, and released her. The child ran off.
Phoebe came slowly into the room, with an uncertain gait, touching the door and the walls like one groping her way.
‘Oh, Mrs. Fenwick!’
It was a little cry from Eugenie–deprecating, full of pain.
Phoebe took no notice of it. She went straight to her visitor.
‘Where is my husband, please?’ she said, in a strong, hoarse voice, mechanically holding out her hand, which Eugenie touched and then let drop–so full of rugged, passionate things were the face and form she looked at.
‘He’s coming by the afternoon train.’ Eugenie threw all her will into calmness and clearness. ‘He gets to Windermere before five–and he thought he might be here a little after six. He was so ill yesterday–when I found him–when I went to see him! That’s what he wanted me to tell you before you saw him again–and so I came first–by the night train.’
‘You went to see him–yesterday?’ said Phoebe, still in the same tense way.
She had never asked her guest to sit, and she stood herself, one hand leaning heavily on the table.
‘I had heard from the lawyers–the lawyers my father had recommended to Mr. Fenwick–that they had found a clue–they had discovered some traces of you in Canada–and I went to tell him.’
‘Lawyers?’ Phoebe raised her left hand in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand.’
Eugenie came a little nearer. Hurriedly, with changing colour, she gave an account of the researches of the lawyers during the preceding seven months–interrupted in the middle by Phoebe.
‘But why was John looking for us, after–after all this time?’ she said, in a fainter, weaker voice, dropping at the same time into a chair.
Eugenie hesitated; then said, firmly, ‘Because he wished to find you, more than anything else in the world. And my father and I helped him all we could–‘
‘But you didn’t know?’–Phoebe caught piteously at her dress–‘you didn’t know–?’
‘That Mr. Fenwick was married? No–never!–till last autumn. That was his wrong-doing, towards all his old friends.’
Phoebe looked at the dignity and pureness of the face before her, and shrank a little.
‘And how was it found out?’ she breathed, turning away.
‘There was a Miss Morrison–‘
‘Bella Morrison!’ cried Phoebe, suddenly, clasping her hands–‘Bella! Of course, she did it to disgrace him.’
‘We never knew what her motive was. But she told–an old friend–who told us.’
‘And then–what did John say?’
The wife’s hands shook–her eyes were greedy for an answer.
‘Oh! it was all miserable!’ said Eugenie, with a gesture of emotion. ‘It made my father very angry, and we could not be friends any more–as we had been. And Mr. Fenwick had a wretched winter. He was ill–and his painting seemed to go wrong–and he was terribly in need of money–and then came that day at the theatre–‘
‘I know,’ whispered Phoebe, hanging on the speaker’s lips–‘when he saw Carrie?’
‘It nearly killed him,’ said Eugenie, gently. ‘It was like a light kindled, and then blown out.’
Phoebe leant her head against the table before her, and began to sob–
‘If I’d never let her go up that day! When we first landed I didn’t know what to do–I couldn’t make up my mind. We’d taken lodgings down at Guildford–near some acquaintances we’d made in Canada. And the girl was a great friend of Carrie’s–we used to stay with them sometimes in Montreal. She had acted a little at Halifax and Montreal–and she wanted an opening in London–and somebody told her to apply at that theatre–I forget its name.’
‘Halifax!’ cried Eugenie–‘Halifax, Nova Scotia? Oh, now I understand! We have searched England through. The stage-manager said one of the young ladies mentioned Halifax. Nobody ever thought–‘
She paused. Phoebe said nothing; she was grappling with some of the new ideas presented to her.
‘And this was his second search, you know,’ said Eugenie, laying a hand timidly on Phoebe’s shoulder. ‘He had done all he could–when you left him. But when he lost sight of Carrie again–and so of you both–it wore his heart out. I can see it did. He is a broken man.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Oh, you will have to nurse–to comfort him. He has been in despair about his art–in despair about everything. He–‘
But she checked herself. The rest was for him to tell.
‘For a long time he seemed so–so–successful,’ said Phoebe, plucking at the tablecloth, trying to compose voice and features.
‘Yes–but it didn’t last. He seemed to get angry with himself–and everybody else. He quarrelled with the Academy–and his work didn’t improve–it went back. But then–when one’s unhappy–‘
Her smile and the pressure of her hand said the rest.
‘He’ll never forgive me!’ said Phoebe, her voice thick and shaking. ‘It can never be the same again. I was a fool to come home.’
Eugenie withdrew her hand. Unconsciously, a touch of sternness showed itself in her bearing, her pale features.
‘No, no!’–she said, with energy. ‘You will comfort him, Mrs. Fenwick–you will give him heart and hope again. It was a cruel thing–forgive me if I say it once!–it was a cruel thing to leave him! A man like that–with his weaknesses and his temperament–which are part of his gift really–its penalty–wants his wife at every turn–the woman who loves him–who understands. But to desert him for a suspicion!–a dream! Oh! Mrs. Fenwick, there are those who–who are really starved–really forsaken–really trampled under foot–by those they love!’
Her voice broke. She stood gazing straight before her, quivering with the passion of recollection. Phoebe looked up–awed–remembering what John had said, so long ago, of the unhappy marriage, the faithless and cruel husband. But Eugenie’s hand touched her again.
‘And I know that you thought–_I_–had made Mr. Fenwick–forget you. That was so strange! At that time–and for many years afterwards–my husband was still alive. If he had sent me a word–any day–any hour–I would have gone to him–to the ends of the world. I don’t mean–I don’t pretend–that my feeling for him remained unchanged. But my pride was–my duty was–that he should never find _me_ lacking. And last year–he turned to me–I was able to help him–through his death. I had been his true wife–and he knew it.’
She spoke quietly, brushing the tears from her eyes. But with the last words, her voice wavered a little. Phoebe had bowed her head upon the hand which held hers, and there was no spectator of the feeling in Eugenie’s face. Was her pure conscience tormented with the thought that she had not told all, and could never tell it? Her innocent tempting of Fenwick–as an act, partly, of piteous self-defence against impulses of quite another quality and power–this must remain her secret to the end. Sad evasions, which life forces upon even the noblest worshippers of truth!
After a minute she stooped and kissed Phoebe’s golden hair.
‘I was so glad to help Mr. Fenwick–he interested me so. If I had only known of you–and the child–why, how happy we might all have been!’
She withdrew her hand, and walked away to the window, trying to calm herself.
Phoebe rose and followed her.
‘Do you know?’–she said, piteously–‘can’t you tell me?–will John take me back?’
Eugenie paused just a moment; then said, steadily, ‘He is coming here, because you are his wife–because he is faithful to you–because he wants you. Don’t agitate him too much! He wants resting and healing. And so do you!’ She took Phoebe’s hands again in hers. ‘And how do you think anybody is to deny you anything, when you bring such a gift as that?’
Carrie and Miss Mason were entering the little garden. Eugenie’s smile, as she motioned towards the girl, seemed to reflect the May sunshine and Carrie’s young charm.
But after Madame de Pastourelles was gone, a cloud of nervous dread fell upon the little cottage and its inmates. Phoebe wandered restlessly about the garden, waiting–and listening–hour after hour.
The May evening drew towards sunset. Flame descended on the valley, striking athwart the opening which leads to its furthest recess, superbly guarded by the crags of Bowfell, and turning all the mountain-side above the cottage, still dyed with the fern of ‘yesteryear,’ to scarlet. A fresh breeze blew through the sycamore leaves, bringing with it the cool scents of rain-washed grass. All was hushed–richly hued–expectant–like some pageant waiting for its king.
Alas–poor king! In the full glory of the evening light, a man alighted from a wagonette at the foot of the cottage hill, and dragged his weary limbs up the steep ground. He opened the gate, looking round him slowly to right and left.
Then, in the porch, Fenwick saw his wife. He walked up to her, and gripped her wrists. She fell back with a stifled cry; and they stood there–speechless and motionless–looking into each other’s eyes.
CHAPTER XIV
Phoebe first withdrew herself. In that first moment of contact, Fenwick’s changed aspect had pierced her to the heart. But the shock itself brought self-control.
‘Come in,’ she said, mechanically; ‘Miss Anna’s gone out.’
‘Where’s Carrie?’
He followed her in, glancing from side to side.
‘She–she’ll be here directly.’
Phoebe’s voice stumbled over the words.
Fenwick understood that the child and Anna Mason were leaving them to themselves, out of delicacy; and his exhaustion of mind and body recoiled impatiently from the prospect of a ‘scene,’ with which he felt himself wholly unable to cope. He had been sorely tempted to stay at Windermere, and telegraph that he was too ill to come that day. Such a course would at least have given him the night’s respite. But a medley of feelings had prevailed over the impulse; and here he was.
They entered the little parlour, and he looked round him in amazement, muttering, ‘Why, it looks just as it did–not a thing changed.’
Phoebe closed the door, and then turned to him, trembling.
‘Won’t you–won’t you say you’re glad to see me, John?’
He looked at her fixedly, then threw himself down beside the table, and rested his head on his hands.
‘It’s no good to suppose we can undo these twelve years,’ he said, roughly; ‘it’s no good whatever to suppose that.’
‘No,’ said Phoebe–‘I know.’
She too sat down on the other side of the table, deadly pale, not knowing what to say or do.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked at her, with his searching painter’s eyes.
‘My God!’ he said, under his breath. ‘We are changed, both of us–aren’t we?’
She too studied the face before her–the grey hair, the red-rimmed eyes, of which the lids fluttered perpetually, shrinking from the light, the sombre mouth; and slowly a look of still more complete dismay overspread her own; reflected, as it were, from that half-savage discouragement and weariness which spoke from the drawn features, the neglected dress, and slouching figure, and seemed to make of the whole man one sore, wincing at a touch. Her heart sank–and sank.
‘Can’t we begin again?’ she said, in a low voice, while the tears rose in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for what I did.’
‘How does that help it?’ he said, irritably. ‘I’m a ruined man. I can’t paint any more–or, at any rate, the world doesn’t care a ha’p’orth _what_ I paint. I should be a bankrupt–but for Madame de Pastourelles–‘
‘John!’ cried Phoebe, bending forward–‘I’ve got a little money–I saved it–and there are some shares a friend advised me to buy, that are worth a lot more than I gave for them. I’ve got eight hundred pounds–and it’s all yours, John,–it’s all yours.’ She stretched out her hands in a yearning anguish, and touched his.
‘What friend?’ he said, with a quick, suspicious movement, taking no notice of her statement; ‘and where have you been–all these years?’
He turned and looked at her sharply.
‘I’ve been in Canada–on a farm–near Montreal.’
She held herself erect, speaking slowly and carefully, as though a moment had arrived for which she had long prepared; through rebellion, and through yielding; now in defiance, and now in fear: the moment when she should tell John the story of her flight. Her manner, indeed–for one who could have understood it–proved a curious thing; that never, throughout their separation, had she ceased to believe that she should see her husband again. There had been no finality in her action. In her eyes the play had been always going on, the curtain always up.
‘You know I told you about Freddy–Freddy Tolson’s–coming to see me–that night? Well, it was the things he said about Canada made me do it. Of course I didn’t want to go where he was going. But he said that one could get to Canada for a few pounds, and it took about nine days. And it was a fine place, and any one could find work. He’d thought of it, he said, but as he had friends in Australia, he was going there. And so, when he’d left the cottage, I thought–if, when I came up to town–I–I did find what I expected–I’d take Carrie–and go to Canada.’
Fenwick rose, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to walk up and down excitedly.
‘And of course–as you expected it–you found it,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Who could ever have _conceived_ that a woman could act in such a way! Why, I had been kissing your photograph the minute before! Lord Findon had been there, to tell me my pictures were in the Academy all right, and he’d given me five hundred pounds for them–and the cheque’–he stopped in front of her, rapping the table with his finger for emphasis–‘the cheque was actually in the drawer!–under your hand–where I’d left it. It was too late to catch the North post for a letter to you, so I went out to tell one or two people, and on the way I bought some things for you at a shop–prettinesses that I’d never been able to give you. Why, I thought of nothing but you.’
His voice had risen to a cry. He stooped, bending over the table, his haggard face close to hers.
She recoiled, and burst into a wild sob:
‘John, I–I couldn’t know!’
‘Well, go on,’ he said, abruptly, raising himself–‘go on. You found that picture in my room–I’ll tell you about that presently–and you wrote me the letter. Well, then you went back to Euston, and you sent Daisy away. After that?’
His stern, sharp tone, which was really the result of a nerve-tension hardly to be borne, scared her. It was with painful difficulty that she collected her forces enough to meet his gaze and to reply.
‘I took Carrie to Liverpool. We had to wait three days there. Then we got on a steamer for Quebec. The voyage was dreadful. Carrie was ill, and I was so–so miserable! We stopped at Quebec a little. But I felt so strange there, with all the people speaking French–so we went on to Montreal. And the Government people there who look after the emigrants found me a place. I got work in an hotel–a sort of housekeeper. I looked after the linen, and the servants, and after a bit I learnt how to keep the accounts. They paid me eight dollars a week, and Carrie and I had a room at the top of the hotel. It was awfully hard work. I was so dead tired at night, sometimes, I couldn’t undress. I would sit down on the side of my bed to rest my feet; and then the next thing I’d know would be waking in the morning, just as I was, in my clothes. But so long as I slept, it was all right. It was lying awake–that killed me!’
The trembling of her lips checked her, and she began to play nervously with the fringe of the tablecloth, trying to force back emotion. He had again seated himself opposite to her, and was observing her with a half-frowning attention, as of one in whom the brain action is physically difficult. He led her on, however, with questions, seeing how much she needed the help of them.
From Montreal, it appeared, she had gone to a fruit-farm in the Hamilton district, Ontario, as housekeeper to a widower with a family of children varying in age from five to sixteen. She had made the acquaintance of this man–a decent, rough, good-tempered fellow, Canadian-born–through the hotel. He had noticed her powers of management, and her overwork; and had offered her equal pay, an easier task, and country air, instead of the rush of Montreal.
‘I accepted for Carrie’s sake. It was an apple-farm, running down to Lake Ontario. I had to look after the house and the children–and to cook–and wash–and bake–and turn one’s hand to anything. It wasn’t too hard–and Carrie went to school with the others–and used to run about the farm. Mr. Crosson was very kind. His old mother was living there–or I–wouldn’t have gone’–she flushed deeply–‘but she was very infirm, and couldn’t do anything. I took in two English papers–and used to get along somehow. Once I was ill, with congestion of the lungs, and once I went to Niagara, with some people who lived near. And I can hardly remember anything else happening. It was all just the same–day after day–I just seemed to be half-alive.’
‘Ah! you felt that?’ he said, eagerly–‘you felt that? There’s a stuff they call curare. You can’t move–you’re paralysed–but you feel horrible pain. That’s what I used to feel like–for months and months. And then sometimes–it was different–as if I didn’t care twopence about anything, except a little bit of pleasure–and should never vex myself about anything again. One was dead, and it didn’t matter–was rather pleasant indeed.’
She was silent. Her seeking, pitiful eyes were on him perpetually, trying to make him out, to acquaint herself with this new personality, which spoke in these harsh staccato phrases–to reconcile it with the exciteable, sanguine, self-confident man whom she had deserted in his youth.
‘Well,’ he resumed, ‘and what was your farmer like?’ Then, suddenly–lifting his eyes–‘Did he make love to you?’
She coloured hotly, and threw back her head.
‘And if he did, it was no one’s fault!–neither his nor mine. He wasn’t a bad fellow!–and he wanted some one to look after his children.’
‘Naturally. Quite content also to look after mine!’ said Fenwick, with a laugh which startled her–resuming his agitated walk, a curious expression of satisfaction, triumph even, on his dark face. ‘So _you_ found yourself in a false position?’
He stopped to look at her, and his smile hurt her sorely. But she had made up her mind to a long patience, and she struggled on.
‘It was partly that made me come home–that, and other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Things–I saw–in some of the papers about you,’ she said, with difficulty.
‘What–that I was a flat failure?–a quarrelsome ass, and that kind of thing? You began to pity me?’
‘Oh, John, don’t talk to me like that?’ She held out her hands to him in appealing misery. ‘I was _sorry_, I tell you!–I saw how I’d behaved to you. I thought if you hadn’t been getting on, perhaps it was my fault. It upset me altogether!’
But he didn’t relent. He stood still–fiercely interrogative–his hands in his pockets, on the other side of the table.
‘And what else was there?’
Phoebe choked back her tears.
‘There was a woman–who came to live near us–who had been a maid–‘ She hesitated.
‘Please go on!’
‘Maid to Madame de Pastourelles’–she said, hastily, stumbling over the French name.
He exclaimed:
‘In Ontario!’
‘She married a man she had been engaged to for years; he’d been making a home for her out there. I liked her directly I saw her; and she was too delicate for the life; she came in the fall, and the winter tried her dreadfully. I used to go in to nurse her–she was very much alone–and she told me all about herself–and about–‘
‘Madame?’
Phoebe nodded, her eyes swimming again in tears.
‘And you found out you’d been mistaken?’
She nodded again.
‘You see–she talked about her to me a great deal. Of course I–I never said anything. She’d been with her fifteen years–and she just worshipped her. And she told me about her bad husband–how she’d nursed him, and that–and how he died last year!’
A wild colour leapt into Fenwick’s cheeks.
‘And you began to think–there might be a false position–there too–between her and me?’
His cruel, broken words stung her intolerably. She sprang up, looking at him fiercely.
‘And if I did, it wasn’t all selfishness. Can’t you understand, I might have been afraid for her–and you–as well as for myself?’
He moved again to the window, and stood with head bent, twisting his lip painfully.
‘And to-day you’ve seen her?’ he said, still looking out.
‘Yes–she was very, very kind,’ said Phoebe, humbly.
He paused a moment, then broke out–
‘And now you see–what you did!–what a horrible thing!–for the most ridiculous reasons! But after you’d left me–in that way–you couldn’t expect me to give her up–her friendship–all I had. For nine or ten years, if I prospered at all, I tell you it was her doing–because she upheld me–because she inspired me–because her mere existence shamed me out of doing–well, what I could never have resisted, but for her. If I ever did good work, it was her doing–if I have been faithful to you, in spite of everything, it was her doing too!’
He sank down upon the window-seat–his face working. And suddenly Phoebe was at his knees.
‘Oh, John–John–forgive me!–do, John!–try and forgive me!’ She caught his hands in hers, kissing them, bathing them with her tears. ‘John, we _can_ begin again!–we’re not so old. You’ll have a long rest–and I’ll work for you night and day. We’ll go abroad with some of my money. Don’t you know how you always said, if you could study abroad a bit, what good it’d do you? We’ll go, won’t we? And you’ll paint as well as ever–you’ll get everything back. Oh, John! don’t hate me!–don’t hate me! I’ve loved you always–always–even when I was so mad and cruel to you. Every night in Canada, I used to long for it to be morning–and then in the morning I longed for it to be night. Nothing was any good to me, or any pleasure–without you. But at first, I was just in despair–I thought I’d lost you for ever–could never, never come back. And then afterwards–when I wanted to come back–when I knew I’d been wicked–I didn’t know how to do it–how to face it. I was frightened–frightened of what you’d say to me–how you’d look!’
She paused, her arms flung round him, her tear-stained face upraised. In her despair, and utter sincerity, she was once more beautiful–with a tragic beauty of character and expression, not lost for one moment upon the man beside her.
He laid his right hand on her head amid the masses of her fair hair, and held it there, forcing her head back a little, studying her in a bitter passion–the upper lip drawn back a little over the teeth, which held and tormented the lower.
‘Twelve years!’ he said, slowly, after a minute, his eyes plunging into hers–‘twelve years! What do you know of me now?–or I of you? I should offend you twenty times a day. And–perhaps–it might be the same with me.’
Phoebe released herself, and laid her head against his knee.
‘John!–take me back–take me back!’
‘Why did you torture me?’ he said, hoarsely. ‘You sent me Carrie six weeks ago–and then swept her away again.’
She cried out. ‘It was the merest accident!’ And volubly–abjectly–she explained.
He listened to her, but without seeming to understand–his own mind working irrelevantly all the time. And presently he interrupted her.
‘Besides–I’m unhinged–I’m not fit to have women dependent on me. I can’t answer for myself. Yesterday–if that picture had come at eight o’clock instead of seven–it would have been too late!’
His voice altered strangely.
Phoebe fell back upon the floor, huddled together–staring at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should have destroyed myself. That’s what I mean. I had made up my mind. It was just touch and go.’
Phoebe sat speechless. It seemed as though her eyes–so wide and terrified–were fixed in their places, and could not release him. He moved impatiently; the appeal, the horror of them, were more than he could bear.
‘And much better for you if I had!–and as for Carrie!–Ah!–good Heavens! there she is.’
He sprang up in agitation, looking through the open window, yet withdrawing from it. Phoebe too rose, the colour rushing back into her cheeks. This was to be her critical, her crucial moment. If she recovered him, she was to owe it to her child.
Carrie and Miss Mason came along the path together. They had been in a wood beside the Elterwater road; not knowing how to talk to each other; wandering apart, and gathering flowers idly, to pass the time. Carrie held a large bunch of bluebells in her hand. She wore a cotton dress of greyish-blue, just such a dress as Phoebe might have worn in her first youth. The skirt was short, and showed her tripping feet. Under her shady hat with its pink rose, her eyes glanced timidly towards the house, and then withdrew themselves again. Fenwick saw that the eyes were in truth darker than Phoebe’s, and the hair much darker–no golden mist like her mother’s, but nearer to his own–a warm brown, curly and vigorous. Her face was round and rosy, but so delicately cut and balanced, it affected him with a thrill of delight. He perceived also that she was very small–smaller than he had thought, in the theatre. But at the same time, her light proportions had in them no hint of weakness or fragility. If she were a fairy, she was no twilight spirit, but rather a cheerful dawn-fairy–one of those happy household sprites that help the work of man.
He went and opened the door for them, trembling.
Carrie saw him there–paused–and then walked on quickly–ahead of Miss Mason.
‘Father!’ she said, gravely, and looking at him, she held out her hand.
He took it, and then, drawing her to him, he kissed her hurriedly.
Carrie’s cheeks grew very red, and her eyes moist, for a moment. But she had long since determined not to cry–because poor mummy would be sure to.
‘I guess you’ll be wanting your tea,’ she said, shyly, looking from him to her mother; ‘I’ll go and see to it.’
Miss Anna came up behind, concealing as best she could the impression made upon her by the husband and wife as they stood in the porch, under the full western light. Alack! here was no happy meeting!–and it was no good pretending.
[Illustration: _Robin Ghyll Cottage_]
Fenwick greeted her with little or no demonstration of any sort, though he and she, also, had never met since the year of Phoebe’s flight. His sunken eyes indeed regarded her with a look that seemed to hold her at bay–a strange look full of bitterness. She understood it to mean that he was not there to lend himself to any sham sentimental business; and that physically he was ill, and could stand no strain, whatever women might wish.
After a few questions about his journey, Miss Anna quietly begged him to come in and rest. He hesitated a moment, then with his hands in his pockets followed her to the parlour; while Phoebe, with Carrie’s arm round her, went falteringly upstairs.
Miss Anna made no scene and asked for no information. She and Carrie bustled to and fro, preparing supper. Fenwick at his own request remained alone in the parlour. But when supper-time came, it was evident that he was too feeble to face an ordinary meal. He lay back in Miss Anna’s armchair with closed eyes, and took no notice of Phoebe’s timid summons. The women looked in upon him, alarmed and whispering together. Then Miss Anna drew Phoebe away, and mixing some milk and brandy sent Carrie in with it. ‘He will go away to-morrow!’ she said, in Phoebe’s ear, referring to a muttered saying of the patient,–‘we shall see!’
As Carrie entered the parlour with the milk and brandy, Fenwick looked up.
‘Where am I to sleep?’ he asked her, abruptly, his eyes lingering on her.
‘In my room,’ she said, softly; ‘I’m going in to Miss Anna. I’ve lengthened the bed!’
A faint smile flickered over his face.
‘How did you do that?’
‘I nailed on a packing-case. Isn’t it queer?–Miss Anna hadn’t any tools. I had to borrow some at the farm–and they were the poorest scratch lot you ever saw. Why, everybody in Canada has tools.’
He held her with a shaking hand, still looking intently at her bright face.
‘Did you like Canada?’
She smiled.
‘Why, it’s _lovely_!’
Then her lips parted eagerly. She would have liked to go on talking, to make acquaintance. But she refrained. This man–this strange new father–was ‘sick’–and must be kept quiet.
‘Will you help me up to bed?’ he murmured–as she was just going away.
She obeyed, and he leant on her shoulder as they mounted the steep cottage stair. Her physical strength astonished him–the amount of support that this child of seventeen was able to give him.
She led him into his room, where she had already brought his bag, and unpacked his things.
‘Is it all right, father? Do you want anything else? Shall I send mother?’
‘No, no,’ he said, hastily–‘I’m all right. Tell them I’m all right; I only want to go to sleep.’
She turned at the door, and looked at him wistfully.
‘I did make that mattress over–part of it. But it’s a real bad one.’
He nodded, and she went.
‘A dream!’ he said to himself–‘_a dream_!’
He was thinking of the child as she stood bathed in the mingled glory of sunset and moonlight flowing in upon her from the open window; for the long day of northern summer was still lingering in the valley.
‘Ah! if I could only _paint_!–oh, God, if I could _paint_!’ he groaned aloud, rubbing his hands together in a fever of impotence and misery.
Then he tumbled into bed, and lay there weak and passive, feeling the strangeness of the remembered room, of the open casement window, of the sycamore outside, and the mountain forms beyond it; of this pearly or golden light in which everything was steeped.
In the silence he heard the voice of the beck, as it hurried down the ghyll. Twelve years since he had heard it last; and the eternal water ‘at its priestlike task’ still murmured with the rocks, still drank the rain, and fed the river. No rebellion there, no failure; no helpless will!
He tried to think of Phoebe, to remember what she had said to him. He wondered if he had been merely brutal to her. But his heart seemed a dry husk within him. It was, as it had been. He could neither think nor feel.
Next day he was so ill that a doctor was sent for. He prescribed long rest, said all excitement must be avoided, all work put away.
Four or five dreary weeks followed. Fenwick stayed in bed most of the day, struggled down to the garden in the afternoon, was nursed by the three women, and scarcely said a word from morning till night that was not connected with some bodily want or discomfort. He showed no repugnance to his wife, would let her wait upon him, and sit beside him in the garden. But he made no spontaneous movement towards her whatever; and the only person who evidently cheered him was Carrie. He watched the child incessantly–in her housework, her sewing, her gardening, her coaxing of her pale mother, her fun with Miss Anna, who was by now her slave. There was something in the slight foreignness of her ways and accent, in her colonial resource and independence that delighted and amused him like a pleasant piece of acting. She had the cottage under her thumb. By now she had cleaned all the furniture, ‘coloured’ most of the walls, and mended all the linen, which had been in a sad condition–Miss Anna’s powers being rather intellectual than practical. And through it all she kept a natural daintiness and refinement, was never clumsy, or loud, or untidy. She came and went so lightly–and always bringing with her the impression of something hidden and fragrant, a happiness within, that gave a dancing grace and perfume to all her life.
To her father she chattered mostly of Canada, and he would sit in the shade of the cottage, listening to her while she described their life; the big, rambling farm, the children she had been brought up with, the great lake with its ice and its storms, the apple-orchards, the sleighing in winter, the beauty of the fall, the splendour of the summers, the boom that was beginning ‘up west.’ Cunningly, in fact, she set the stage for an actor to come; but his ‘cue’ was not yet.
It was only from her, indeed, that he would hear of these things. If Phoebe ventured on them his manner stiffened at once. Miss Anna’s strong impression was, still, that with his wife he was always on his guard against demands he felt himself physically unable to meet. Yet it seemed to her, as time went on, that he was more and more aware of Phoebe, more sensitive to her presence, her voice.
She too watched Phoebe, and with a growing, involuntary respect. This changed woman had endured ‘hardness,’ had at last followed her conscience; and, rebuffed and unforgiven as she seemed to be, she was clothed none the less in a new dignity, modest and sad, but real. She might be hopeless of recovering her husband; but all the same, the law which links that strange thing, spiritual peace, with certain surrenders, had already begun to work, unknown even to herself.
As she moved about the cottage and garden, indeed, new contacts, new relations, slowly established themselves, unseen and unexpressed, between her and the man who scarcely noticed her in words, from morning till night. ‘I should offend you twenty times a day,’ he had said to her–‘and perhaps it might be the same with me!’ But they did not offend each other!–that was the merciful new fact, asserting itself through this silent, suspended time. She was still beautiful. The mountain air restored her clear, pure colour; and what time had robbed her of in bloom it had given her back in _character_–the artist’s supreme demand. Self-control, bitterly learnt–fresh capacities, moral or practical–these expressed themselves in a thousand trifles. Not only in her tall slenderness and fairness was she presently a challenge to Fenwick’s sharpening sense; she began, in a wholly new degree, to interest his intelligence. Her own had blossomed; and in spite of grief, she had brought back with her some of the ways of a young and tiptoe world. Soon he was, in secret, hungry for her history–the history he had so far refused to hear. Who was this man who had made love to her?–how far had it gone?–he tossed at nights thinking of it. There came a time when he would gladly have exchanged Carrie’s gossip for hers; and through her soft silence, as she sat beside him, he would hear suddenly, in memory, the echoes of her girlish voice, and make a quick movement towards her–only to check himself in shyness or pride.
Meanwhile he could not know that he too had grown in her eyes, as she in his. In spite of all his errors and follies, he had not wrestled with his art, he had not lived among his intellectual peers, he had not known Eugenie de Pastourelles through twelve years, for nothing. Embittered he was, but also refined. The nature had grown harsher and more rugged–but also larger, more complex, more significant, better worth the patiences of love. As for his failure, the more she understood it, the more it evoked in her an angry advocacy, a passionate championship, a protesting faith–which she had much ado to hide.
And all this time letters came occasionally from Madame de Pastourelles–indifferently to her or to him–full of London artistic gossip, the season being now in full swim, of sly stimulus and cheer. As they handed them to each other, without talking of them, it was as though the shuttle of fate flew from life to life–these in Langdale, and that in London–weaving the three into a new pattern which day by day replaced and hid away the old.
The days lengthened towards midsummer. After a spell of rain, June descended in blossom and sunshine on the Westmoreland vales. The hawthorns were out, and the wild cherries. The bluebells were fading in the woods, but in the cottage gardens the lilacs were all fragrance, and the crown-imperials showed their heads of yellow and red. Each valley and hillside was a medley of soft and shimmering colour, save in the higher, austerer dales, where, as in Langdale, the woods scarcely climb, and the bare pastures have only a livelier emerald to show, or the crags a warmer purple, as their testimony to the spring.
Fenwick was unmistakeably better. The signs of it were visible in many directions. His passive, silent ways, so alien to his natural self and temperament, were at last breaking down.
One evening, Carrie, who had been to Elterwater, brought back some afternoon letters. They included a letter from Canada, which Carrie read over her mother’s shoulder, laughing and wondering. Phoebe was sitting on a bench in the garden, an old yew-tree just above her on the slope. The heads of both mother and child were thrown out sharply on the darkness of the yew background–Phoebe’s profile, upturned, and the abundant coils of her hair, were linked in harmonious line with the bending figure and beautiful head of the girl.
Suddenly Fenwick put down the newspaper which Carrie had brought him. He rose, muttered something, and went into the house. They could hear him rummaging in his room, where Phoebe had lately unpacked some boxes forwarded from London. He had never so far touched brush or crayon during his stay at the cottage.
Presently he returned with a canvas and palette.
‘Don’t go!’ he said, peremptorily, to Carrie, raising his hand. ‘Stand as you were before.’
‘You don’t want me?’ asked Phoebe, startled, her pale cheeks suddenly pink.
‘Yes, yes, I do!’ he said, impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, don’t move, either of you!’
He went back for an easel, then sat down and began to paint.
They held themselves as still as mice. Carrie could see her mother’s hands trembling on her lap.
Suddenly Fenwick said, in emotion:
‘I don’t know how it is–but I _see_ much better than I did.’
Miss Anna looked up from the low wall on which she was sitting.
‘The doctor said you would, John, when you got strong,’ she put in, quickly. ‘He said you’d been suffering from your eyes a long time without knowing it. It was nerves like the rest.’
Fenwick said nothing. He went on painting, painting fast and freely–for nearly an hour. All the time Phoebe could hardly breathe. It was as though she felt the doors opening upon a new room in the House of Life.
[Illustration: _Fenwick stood looking at the canvas_]
Then the artist threw his canvas on the grass, and stood looking at it.
‘By Jove!’ he said, presently. ‘By Jove!–that’ll do.’
Phoebe said nothing. Carrie came up to him and put her hand in his arm.
‘Father, that’s enough. Don’t do any more.’
‘All right. Take it away–and all these things.’
She lifted the sketch, the palette and brushes, and carried them into the house.
Then Fenwick looked up irresolutely. His wife was still sitting on the bench. She had her sewing in her hands.
‘Your hair’s as pretty as ever, Phoebe,’ he said, in a queer voice. Phoebe raised her deep lids slowly, and her eyes spoke for her. She would offer herself no more–implore no more–but he knew in that moment that she loved him more maturely, more richly, than she had ever loved him in the old days. A shock, that was also a thrill, ran through him. They remained thus for some seconds gazing at each other. Then, as Carrie returned, Phoebe went into the house.
Carrie studied her father for a little, and then came to sit down on the grass beside him. Miss Anna had gone for a walk along the fell.
‘Are you feeling better, father?’
‘Yes–a good deal.’
‘Well, then–now–I can tell you _my_ news.’
And she deliberately drew out a photograph from her pocket, and held it up to him.
‘Well’–said Fenwick, mystified. ‘Who’s the young man?’
‘He’s _my_ young man’–was Carrie’s entirely self-possessed reply. ‘I’m going to marry him.’
‘_What_?’ cried Fenwick. ‘Show him to me.’
Carrie yielded up her treasure rather timidly.
Fenwick looked at the picture, then put it down angrily.
‘What nonsense are you talking, Carrie! Why, you’re only a baby. You oughtn’t to be thinking of any such things.’
Carrie shook her head resolutely. ‘I’m not a baby. I’ve been in love with him more than a year.’
‘Upon my word!’ said Fenwick; ‘who allowed you to be in love with him? And has it never occurred to you–lately–that you’d have to ask my leave?’
Carrie hesitated. ‘In Canada I wouldn’t have to,’ she said, at last, decidedly.
‘Oh! they’ve abolished the Fifth Commandment there, have they?’
‘No, no. But the girls choose for themselves!’ said Carrie, tossing back her brown curls with the slightest touch of defiance.
Fenwick observed her, his brow clouding.
‘And you suppose that I’m going to say “Yes” at once to this mad proposal?–that I’m going to give you up altogether, just as I’ve got you back? I warn you at once, I shall not consent to any such thing!’
There was silence. Fenwick sat staring at her, his lips moving, angry sentences of authority and reproach forming themselves in his mind–but without coming to speech. It was intolerable, inhuman–that at this very moment, when he wanted her most, this threat of fresh loss should be sprung upon him. She was _his_–his property. He would not give her up to any Canadian fellow, and he altogether disapproved of such young love-affairs.
‘Father,’ said Carrie, after a moment, ‘when George asked me–we didn’t know–‘
‘About me? Well, now you do know,’ said Fenwick, roughly. ‘I’m here–and I have my rights.’
He put out his hand and seized her arm, looking at her, devouring her, in a kind of angry passion.
Carrie grew a little pale, and, coming nearer, she laid her head against his knee.
‘Father, you don’t understand what we propose.’
‘Well, out with it, then!’
‘We wouldn’t think about being married for three years. Why, of course we wouldn’t! I don’t want to be all settled that soon. And, besides, we’re going abroad–you and mummy and I. I’m going to take you!’ She sat up, tossing her pretty head, her eyes as bright as stars.
‘And be thinking all the time of the Canadian chap?–bored with everything!’ growled Fenwick.
Carrie surveyed him. A film of tears sparkled.
‘I’m never bored. Father!’–she held herself erect, throwing all her soul into every word–‘George is–_awfully–nice!_’
Ah! the ‘life-force’! There it was before him, embodied in this light, ardent creature, on whose brown head and white dress the June sun streamed through the sycamore-leaves. With a groan–suddenly–Fenwick weakened.
‘What’s his horrid name?–who is he?–quick!’
Carrie gave a little crow–and began to talk, sitting there on the grass, with her hands round her knees. The interloper, it appeared, had every virtue and every prospect. What was to be done? Presently Carrie crept up to him again.
‘Father!–he wants to come to Europe. When you’ve found a plan–if we let him come and hitch up alongside of us somewhere–why, he wouldn’t be any trouble!–_I’d_ see to that! And you don’t know whether–whether a son–mightn’t suit you! Why!–you’ve never tried!’
He made an effort, and held her at arm’s length.
‘I tell you, I can say nothing about it–nothing–till George has written to _me_!’
‘But he has–this mail!’ And in triumph she hastily dragged a letter out of the little bag at her waist, and gave it him. ‘It came this afternoon, only I didn’t know if you might have it.’
He laughed excitedly, and took it.
An hour later Fenwick rose. The day had grown cool. A fresh breeze was blowing from the north down the fell-side. He put his arm round Carrie as she stood beside him, kissed her, and in a gruff, unintelligible voice, murmured something that brought the tears again to her eyes. Then he announced that he was going for a short walk. Neither Phoebe nor Miss Anna were to be seen. Carrie protested on the score of his health.
‘Nonsense! The doctor said I might do what I felt I could do.’
‘Then you must say good-bye to me. For Miss Anna and I are going directly.’
Fenwick looked scared, but was soon reminded that Miss Anna was to drive the child that evening to Bowness, where Carrie was to be introduced to some old friends of Miss Anna’s and stay with them a couple of days. He evidently did not like the prospect, but he made no audible protest against it, as he would perhaps have done a week before.
Carrie watched him go–followed his figure with her eyes along the road.
‘And I’m glad _we’re_ off!’–she said to herself, her small feet dancing–‘we’ve been cumbering this ground, Miss Anna and I–a deal too long!’
He was soon nearly a mile from home; rejoicing strangely in his recovered power of movement, and in the freshness of the evening air. He found himself on a hill above Elterwater, looking back on the lake, and on a wide range of hills beyond, clothed, in all their lower slopes, with the full leaf of June. Wood rose above wood, in every gradation of tone and loveliness, creeping upwards through blue haze, till they suddenly lost hold on the bare peaks, which rose, augustly clear, into the upper sky. The lake with its deep or glowing reflexions–its smiling shore–the smoke of its few houses–lay below him; and between him and it, glistening sharply, in a sun-steeped magic, upon the blue and purple background of the hills and woods–a wild cherry, in its full mantle of bridal white.
What tranquillity!–what colour!–what infinite variety of beauty! His heart swelled within him. Life of the body–and life of the soul–seemed to be flowing back upon him, lifting him on its wave, steeping him in its freshening strength. ‘My God!’ he thought, remembering the sketch he had just made, and the mastery with which he had worked–‘if I am able to paint again!–if I am!’
An ecstasy of hope arose in him. What if really there had been something wrong with his eyes!–something that rest might set right? What if he had wanted rest for years?–and had gone on defying nature and common sense?
And in a moment, as he sat there, looking out into the evening, the old whirl of images invaded him–the old tumult of ideas–clamouring for shape and form–flitting, phantom-like, along the woods and over the bosom of the lake. He let himself be carried along, urging his brain, his fancy, filled with indescribable happiness. It was years since the experience had last befallen him! Did it mean the return of youth?–conception?–creative power? What matter!–years, or hardship?–if the mind could still imagine, the hand still shape?
He thought of his own series of the ‘Months’–which he had planned among these hills, and had carried out perfunctorily and vulgarly, in the city, far from the freshness and infinity of Nature. All the faults of his designs appeared to him, and the poverty of their execution. But he was only exultant, not depressed. Now that he could judge himself, now that his brain had begun to react once more, with this vigour, this wealth of idea–surely all would be well.
Then for the first time he thought of the money which Phoebe had saved. Abroad! Italy?–or France? To go as a wanderer and a student, on pilgrimage to the sources of beauty and power. What was old, or played out? Not Beauty!–not the mind within him–not his craftsman’s sense. He threw himself on the grass, face downwards, praying as he had been wont to do in his youth, but in a far more mystical, more inward way; not to a far-off God, invited to come down and change or tamper with external circumstance; but to something within himself, identified with himself, the power of beauty in him, the resurgent forces of hope–and love.
At last, after a long time, as the summer twilight was waning, there struck through his dream the thought of Phoebe–alone in the cottage–waiting for him. He sprang up, and began to hurry down the hill.
Phoebe was quite alone. The little servant who only came for the day had gone back to the farm where she slept, and Carrie and Miss Anna had long since departed on their visit.
Carrie had told her mother that ‘father’ had gone for a walk. And strangely enough, though he was away two hours, and she knew him still far from his usual strength, Phoebe was not anxious. But she was mortally tired–as though of a sudden a long tension had been loosened, a long effort relaxed.
So she had gone upstairs to bed. But she had not begun to undress, and she sat in a low chair near the window, with the casements wide open, and the twin-peaks visible through them under a starry sky. Her head had fallen back against the chair; her hands were folded on her lap.
Then she heard Fenwick come in and his step coming up the stairs.
It paused outside her door, and her heart beat so that she could hardly bear it.
‘May I come in?’
It seemed to her that he did not wait for her low reply. He came in, and shut the door. There was a bright colour in his face, and his breath came fast, as he stood beside her, with his hands on his sides.
‘Are you sure you like my coming?’ he said, brusquely.
She did not answer in words, but she put out her hand, and drew him towards her.
He knelt down by her, and she flung an arm round his neck, and laid her fair head on his shoulder with a long sigh.
‘You are very tired?’
‘No. I knew you would come.’
A silence. Then he said, waveringly, stooping over her:
‘Phoebe–I was very hard to you. But there was a black pall on me–and now it’s lifting. Will you forgive me?–my dear–my dear!’
She clung to him with a great cry. And once more the torrent of love and repentance was unsealed, which had been arrested through all these weeks. In broken words–in mutual confession–each helping, each excusing the other–the blessed healing time passed on its way; till suddenly, as her hand dropped again upon her knee, he noticed, as he had often bitterly noticed before, the sham wedding-ring on the third finger.
She saw his eyes upon it, and flushed.
‘I had to, John,’ she pleaded. ‘I had to.’
He said nothing, but he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and brought out the same large pocket-book which still held her last letter to him. He took out the letter, and offered it to her. ‘Don’t read it,’ he said, peremptorily. ‘Tear it up.’
She recognised it, with a sob, and, trembling, did as he bade her. He gathered up the small fragments of it, took them to the grate, and lit a match under them. Then he returned to her–still holding the open pocket-book.
‘Give me your hand.’
She held it out to him, bewildered. He slowly drew off the ring, put it aside; then from the inmost fold of the pocket-book he took another ring, slipt it on her finger, and kissed the hand. After which he knelt down again beside her, and they clung to each other–close and long.
‘I return it’–he murmured–‘after twelve years! God bless you for Carrie. God bless you for coming back to me. We’ll go to Italy. You shall do that for me. But I’ll repay you–if I live. Now, are you happy? Why, we’re young yet!’
And so they kissed; knowing well that the years are irreparable, and yet defying them; conscious, as first youth is never conscious, of the black forces which surround our being, and yet full of passionate hope; aware of death, as youth is never aware of it, and yet determined to shape something out of life; sad and yet rejoicing, ‘cast down, but not destroyed.’
EPILOGUE
Of Eugenie, still a few words remain to say. About a year after Fenwick’s return she lost her father. A little later Elsie Welby died. To the end of her life she had never willingly accepted Eugenie’s service, and the memory of this, alack, is for Eugenie among the pains that endure. What influence it may have had upon her later course can hardly be discussed here. She continued to live in Westminster, and to be the friend of many. One friend was tacitly accepted by all who loved her as possessing a special place and special privileges. Encouraged and inspired by her, Arthur Welby outlived the cold and academic manner of his later youth, and in the joy of richer powers, and the rewards of an unstained and pure affection, he recovered much that life seemed once to have denied him. Eugenie never married him. In friendship, in ideas, in books, she found the pleasures of her way. Part of her life she spent–with yearning and humility–among the poor. But with them she never accomplished much. She was timid in their presence, and often unwise; neither side understood the other. Her real sphere lay in what a great Oxford preacher once enforced at St. Mary’s, as–‘our duty to our equals’–the hardest of all. Her influence, her mission, were with her own class; with the young girls just ‘out,’ who instinctively loved and clung to her; with the tired or troubled women of the world, who felt her presence as the passage of something pure and kindling which evoked their better selves; and with those men, in whom the intellectual life wages its difficult war with temperament and circumstance, for whom beauty and truth are realities, and yet–great also is Diana of the Ephesians! Thus in her soft, glancing, woman’s way, she stood with ‘the helpers and friends of mankind.’ But she never knew it. In her own opinion, few persons were so unprofitable as she; and but for her mystical belief, the years would have brought her melancholy. They left her smile, however, undimmed. For the mystic carries within a little flame of joy, very hard to quench. The wind of Death itself does but stir and strengthen it.
[Illustration: _Robin Ghyll Cottage_]