Man and Maid

Jane is ashamed to be quite sure that she remembers praying to Dante and Shakespeare, and at last to Christina Rossetti, because she was a woman and loved her brothers.

But no help came. The old woman fussed in and out with wood for the fire – candles – food. Very kindly, it appears, but Jane wished she wouldn’t. Jane thinks she must have eaten some of the food, or the old woman would not have left her as she did.

Jane took the draught, and went to bed.

When Mrs Beale came into the sitting-room next morning, a neat pile of manuscript lay on the table, and when she took a cup of tea to Jane’s bedside, Jane was sleeping so placidly that the old woman had not the heart to disturb her, and set the tea down on a chair by the pillow to turn white and cold.

When Jane came into the sitting-room, she stood long looking at the manuscript. At last she picked it up, and, still standing, read it through. When she had finished, she stood a long time with it in her hand. At last she shrugged her shoulders and sat down. She wrote to Milly.

“Here is the story. I don’t know how I’ve done it, but here it is. Do read it – because I really am a little mad, and if it’s any good, send it in at once to the Monthly Multitude. I slept all last night. I shall soon be well now. Everything is so delightful, and the air is splendid. A thousand thanks for sending me here. I am enjoying the rest and change immensely. – Your grateful

    “Jane.”

She read it through. Her smile at the last phrase was not pretty to see.

When the long envelope was posted, Jane went down to the quiet shore and gazed out over the sunlit sands to the opal line of the far receding tide.

The story was written. There was an end to the conflict of agonies, so now the fiercer agony had the field to itself.

“I suppose I shall learn to bear it presently,” she told herself. “I wish I had not forgotten how to cry. I am sure I ought to cry. But the story is done, anyway. I daresay I shall remember how to cry before the next story has to be done.”

There were two more nights and one whole day. The nights had islands of sleep in them – hot, misty islands in a river of slow, crawling, sluggish hours. The day was light and breezy and sunny, with a blue sky cloud-flecked. The day was worse than the nights, because in the day she remembered all the time who she was, and where.

It was on the last day of the week. She was sitting rigid in the little porch, her eyes tracing again and again with conscious intentness the twisted pattern of the budding honeysuckle stalks. A rattle of wheels suddenly checked came to her, and she untwisted her stiff fingers and went down the path to meet Milly – a pale Milly, with red spots in her cheeks and fierce, frowning brows – a Milly who drew back from the offered kiss and spoke in tones that neither had heard before.

“Come inside. I want to speak to you.”

The new disaster thus plainly heralded moved Jane not at all. There was no room in her soul for any more pain. In the little dining-room, conscientiously “quaint” with its spotted crockery dogs and corner cupboard shining with willow pattern tea-cups, Milly shut the door and turned on her friend.

“Now,” she said, “I came down to see you, because there are some things I couldn’t write – even to you. You can go back to the station in the cab, I’ve told the man to wait. And I hope I shall never see your face again.”

“What do you mean?” Jane asked the question mechanically, and not at all because she did not know the answer.

“You know what I mean,” the other answered, still with white fury. “I’ve found you out. You thought you were safe, and Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But as it happens I knew; and so shall everybody else.”

Jane moistened dry lips, and said: “Knew what?” and held on by the table.

“You didn’t think he’d told me about it, did you?” Milly flashed – “but he did.”

“I think you must tell me what you mean,” Jane said, and shifted her hold from table to armchair.

“Oh, certainly.” Milly tossed her head, and Jane’s fingers tightened on the chair-back. “Yes, I don’t wonder you look ill – I suppose you were sorry when you’d done it. But it’s no use being sorry; you should have thought of all that before.”

“Tell me,” said Jane, low.

“I’ll tell you fast enough. You shall see I do know. Well, then, that story you sent me – you just copied it from a story of Edgar’s that was in the old cabinet. He wrote it when he was here; and he said it wasn’t good, and I said it was, and then he said he’d leave it in the secret drawer, and see how it looked when he came back. And you found it. And you thought you were very clever, I daresay, and that Edgar was dead, and no one would know. But I knew, and – ”

“Yes,” Jane interrupted, “you said that before. So you think I found Edgar’s manuscript? If I did it I must have done it in my sleep. I used to walk in my sleep when I was a child. You believe me, Milly, don’t you?”

“No,” said Milly, “I don’t.”

“Then I’ll say nothing more,” said Jane with bitter dignity. “I will go at once, and I will try to forgive your cruelty. I would never have doubted your word – never. I am very ill – look at me. I had a sleeping draught, and I suppose it upset me: such things have happened. You’ve known me eight or nine years: have you ever known me do a dishonourable thing, or tell a lie? The dishonour is in yourself, to believe such things of me.”

Jane had drawn herself up, and stood, tall and haggard, her dark eyes glowing in their deep sockets. The other woman was daunted. She hesitated, stammered half a word, and was silent.

“Good-bye,” said Jane; “and I hope to God no one will ever be such a brute to you as you have been to me.” She turned, but before she reached the door Milly had caught her by the arm.

“No, don’t, don’t!” she cried. “I do believe you, I do! You poor darling! You must have done it in your sleep. Oh, forgive me, Jane dear. I’ll never tell a soul, and Edgar – ”

“Ah,” said Jane, turning mournful eyes on her, “Edgar would have believed in me.”

And at that Milly understood – in part, at least – and held out her arms.

“Oh, you poor dear! and I never even guessed! Oh, forgive me!” and she cried over Jane and kissed her many times. “Oh, my dear!” she said, as Jane yielded herself to the arms and her face to the kisses, “I’ve got something to tell you. You must be brave.”

“No – no more,” Jane said shrilly; “I can’t bear any more. I don’t want to know how it happened, or anything. He’s dead – that’s enough.”

“But – ” Milly clung sobbing to her, sobbing with sympathy and agitation.

Jane pushed her back, held her at arm’s length and looked at her with eyes that were still dry.

“You’re a good little thing, after all,” she said. “Yes – now I’ll tell you. You were quite right. It was a lie – but half of it was true – the half I told you – but I wanted you to believe the other half too. I did walk in my sleep, and I must have opened that cabinet and taken Edgar’s story out, because I found myself standing there with it in my hands. And he was dead, and – Oh, Milly. I knew he was dead, of course, and yet he was there – I give you my word he was there, and I heard him say ‘Take it, take it, take it!’ quite plainly, like I’m speaking to you now. And I took it; and I copied it out – it took me nearly all night – and then I sent it to you. And I’d never have told you the truth as long as you didn’t believe me – never – never. But now you do believe me I won’t lie to you. There! Let me go. I think I was mad then, and I know I am now. Tell every one. I don’t care.”

But Milly threw her arms round her again. The love interest had overpowered the moral sense. What did the silly story, or the theft, or the lie matter – what were they, compared with the love-secret she had surprised?

“My darling Jane,” she said, holding her friend closely and still weeping lavishly, “don’t worry about the story: I quite understand. Let’s forget it. You’ve got quite enough trouble to bear without that. But there’s one thing, it’s just as well I found out before the story was published. Because Edgar isn’t dead. His ship has been towed in: he’s at home.”

Jane laughed.

“Don’t cry, dear,” said Milly; “I’ll help you to bear it. Only – oh dear, how awful it is for you! – he’s going to be married.”

Jane laughed again; and then she thinks the great, green waves really did rise up all round the quaint dining-room – rise mountains high, and, falling, cover her.

Jane was ill so long that Milly had to tell Edgar about the story after all, and they sent it in, and it was published in Jane’s name. So the little brothers were all right. And he wrote the next story for her too, and they corrected the proofs together.

Jane has always thought it a pity that Milly had not troubled to ask the name of the girl whom Edgar intended to marry, because the name proved, on enquiry, to be Jane.

V

THE MILLIONAIRESS

I

It is a dismal thing to be in London in August. The streets are up for one thing, and your cab can never steer a straight course for the place you want to go to. And the trees are brown in the parks, and every one you know is away, so that there would be nowhere to go in your cab, even if you had the money to pay for it, and you could go there without extravagance.

Stephen Guillemot sat over his uncomfortable breakfast-table in the rooms he shared with his friend, and cursed his luck. His friend was away by the sea, and he was here in the dirty and sordid blackness of his Temple chambers. But he had no money for a holiday; and when Dornington had begged him to accept a loan, he had sworn at Dornington, and Dornington had gone off not at all pleased. And now Dornington was by the sea, and he was here. The flies buzzed in the panes and round the sticky marmalade jar; the sun poured in at the open window. There was no work to do. Stephen was a solicitor by trade; but, in fact and perforce, an idler. No business came to him. All day long the steps of clients sounded on the dirty, old wooden staircase – clients for Robinson on the second, for Jones on the fourth, but none for Guillemot on the third. Even now steps were coming, though it was only ten o’clock. The young man glanced at the marmalade jar, at the crooked cloth stained with tea, which his laundress had spread for his breakfast.

“Suppose it is a client – ” He broke off with a laugh. He had never been able to cure himself of that old hope that some day the feet of a client – a wealthy client – would pause at his door, but the feet had always gone by – as these would do. The steps did indeed pass his door, paused, came back, and – oh wonder! it was his knocker that awoke the Temple echoes.