The Marriages

“Ah I’ll he damned if I won’t tell him!” he rang out.

Adela felt sick at this, but she flamed up to resent the treachery, as it struck her, of such a menace.  “I did right—I did right!” she vehemently declared “I went down on my knees to pray for guidance, and I saved mamma’s memory from outrage.  But if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t”—she faltered an instant—“I’m not worse than you, and I’m not so bad, for you’ve done something that you’re ashamed to tell me.”

He had taken out his watch; he looked at it with quick intensity, as if not hearing nor heeding her.  Then, his calculating eyes raised, he fixed her long enough to exclaim with unsurpassable horror and contempt: “You raving maniac!”  He turned away from her; he bounded down the avenue in the direction from which they had come, and, while she watched him, strode away, across the grass, toward the short cut to the station.

IV

His bags, by the time she got home, had been brought to the house, but Beatrice and Muriel, immediately informed of this, waited for their brother in vain.  Their sister said nothing to them of her having seen him, and she accepted after a little, with a calmness that surprised herself, the idea that he had returned to town to denounce her.  She believed this would make no difference now—she had done what she had done.  She had somehow a stiff faith in Mrs. Churchley.  Once that so considerable mass had received its impetus it wouldn’t, it couldn’t pull up.  It represented a heavy-footed person, incapable of further agility.  Adela recognised too how well it might have come over her that there were too many children.  Lastly the girl fortified herself with the reflexion, grotesque in the conditions and conducing to prove her sense of humour not high, that her father was after all not a man to be played with.  It seemed to her at any rate that if she had baffled his unholy purpose she could bear anything—bear imprisonment and bread and water, bear lashes and torture, bear even his lifelong reproach.  What she could bear least was the wonder of the inconvenience she had inflicted on Godfrey.  She had time to turn this over, very vainly, for a succession of days—days more numerous than she had expected, which passed without bringing her from London any summons to come up and take her punishment.  She sounded the possible, she compared the degrees of the probable; feeling however that as a cloistered girl she was poorly equipped for speculation.  She tried to imagine the calamitous things young men might do, and could only feel that such things would naturally be connected either with borrowed money or with bad women.  She became conscious that after all she knew almost nothing about either of those interests.  The worst woman she knew was Mrs. Churchley herself.  Meanwhile there was no reverberation from Seymour Street—only a sultry silence.

At Brinton she spent hours in her mother’s garden, where she had grown up, where she considered that she was training for old age, since she meant not to depend on whist.  She loved the place as, had she been a good Catholic, she would have loved the smell of her parish church; and indeed there was in her passion for flowers something of the respect of a religion.  They seemed to her the only things in the world that really respected themselves, unless one made an exception for Nutkins, who had been in command all through her mother’s time, with whom she had had a real friendship and who had been affected by their pure example.  He was the person left in the world with whom on the whole she could speak most intimately of the dead.  They never had to name her together—they only said “she”; and Nutkins freely conceded that she had taught him everything he knew.  When Beatrice and Muriel said “she” they referred to Mrs. Churchley.  Adela had reason to believe she should never marry, and that some day she should have about a thousand a year.  This made her see in the far future a little garden of her own, under a hill, full of rare and exquisite things, where she would spend most of her old age on her knees with an apron and stout gloves, with a pair of shears and a trowel, steeped in the comfort of being thought mad.

One morning ten days after her scene with Godfrey, on coming back into the house shortly before lunch, she was met by Miss Flynn with the notification that a lady in the drawing-room had been waiting for her for some minutes.  “A lady” suggested immediately Mrs. Churchley.  It came over Adela that the form in which her penalty was to descend would be a personal explanation with that misdirected woman.  The lady had given no name, and Miss Flynn hadn’t seen Mrs. Churchley; nevertheless the governess was certain Adela’s surmise was wrong.

“Is she big and dreadful?” the girl asked.

Miss Flynn, who was circumspection itself, took her time.  “She’s dreadful, but she’s not big.”  She added that she wasn’t sure she ought to let Adela go in alone; but this young lady took herself throughout for a heroine, and it wasn’t in a heroine to shrink from any encounter.  Wasn’t she every instant in transcendent contact with her mother?  The visitor might have no connexion whatever with the drama of her father’s frustrated marriage; but everything to-day for Adela was part of that.

Miss Flynn’s description had prepared her for a considerable shock, but she wasn’t agitated by her first glimpse of the person who awaited her.  A youngish well-dressed woman stood there, and silence was between them while they looked at each other.  Before either had spoken however Adela began to see what Miss Flynn had intended.  In the light of the drawing-room window the lady was five-and-thirty years of age and had vivid yellow hair.  She also had a blue cloth suit with brass buttons, a stick-up collar like a gentleman’s, a necktie arranged in a sailor’s knot, a golden pin in the shape of a little lawn-tennis racket, and pearl-grey gloves with big black stitchings.  Adela’s second impression was that she was an actress, and her third that no such person had ever before crossed that threshold.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve come for,” said the apparition.  “I’ve come to ask you to intercede.”  She wasn’t an actress; an actress would have had a nicer voice.

“To intercede?”  Adela was too bewildered to ask her to sit down.

“With your father, you know.  He doesn’t know, but he’ll have to.”  Her “have” sounded like “’ave.”  She explained, with many more such sounds, that she was Mrs. Godfrey, that they had been married seven mortal months.  If Godfrey was going abroad she must go with him, and the only way she could go with him would be for his father to do something.  He was afraid of his father—that was clear; he was afraid even to tell him.  What she had come down for was to see some other member of the family face to face—“fice to fice,” Mrs. Godfrey called it—and try if he couldn’t be approached by another side.  If no one else would act then she would just have to act herself.  The Colonel would have to do something—that was the only way out of it.

What really happened Adela never quite understood; what seemed to be happening was that the room went round and round.  Through the blur of perception accompanying this effect the sharp stabs of her visitor’s revelation came to her like the words heard by a patient “going off” under ether.  She afterwards denied passionately even to herself that she had done anything so abject as to faint; but there was a lapse in her consciousness on the score of Miss Flynn’s intervention.  This intervention had evidently been active, for when they talked the matter over, later in the day, with bated breath and infinite dissimulation for the school-room quarter, the governess had more lurid truths, and still more, to impart than to receive.  She was at any rate under the impression that she had athletically contended, in the drawing-room, with the yellow hair—this after removing Adela from the scene and before inducing Mrs. Godfrey to withdraw.  Miss Flynn had never known a more thrilling day, for all the rest of it too was pervaded with agitations and conversations, precautions and alarms.  It was given out to Beatrice and Muriel that their sister had been taken suddenly ill, and the governess ministered to her in her room.  Indeed Adela had never found herself less at ease, for this time she had received a blow that she couldn’t return.  There was nothing to do but to take it, to endure the humiliation of her wound.

At first she declined to take it—having, as might appear, the much more attractive resource of regarding her visitant as a mere masquerading person, an impudent impostor.  On the face of the matter moreover it wasn’t fair to believe till one heard; and to hear in such a case was to hear Godfrey himself.  Whatever she had tried to imagine about him she hadn’t arrived at anything so belittling as an idiotic secret marriage with a dyed and painted hag.  Adela repeated this last word as if it gave her comfort; and indeed where everything was so bad fifteen years of seniority made the case little worse.  Miss Flynn was portentous, for Miss Flynn had had it out with the wretch.  She had cross-questioned her and had not broken her down.  This was the most uplifted hour of Miss Flynn’s life; for whereas she usually had to content herself with being humbly and gloomily in the right she could now be magnanimously and showily so.  Her only perplexity was as to what she ought to do—write to Colonel Chart or go up to town to see him.  She bloomed with alternatives—she resembled some dull garden-path which under a copious downpour has begun to flaunt with colour.  Toward evening Adela was obliged to recognise that her brother’s worry, of which he had spoken to her, had appeared bad enough to consist even of a low wife, and to remember that, so far from its being inconceivable a young man in his position should clandestinely take one, she had been present, years before, during her mother’s lifetime, when Lady Molesley declared gaily, over a cup of tea, that this was precisely what she expected of her eldest son.  The next morning it was the worst possibilities that seemed clearest; the only thing left with a tatter of dusky comfort being the ambiguity of Godfrey’s charge that her own action had “done” for him.  That was a matter by itself, and she racked her brains for a connecting link between Mrs. Churchley and Mrs. Godfrey.  At last she made up her mind that they were related by blood; very likely, though differing in fortune, they were cousins or even sisters.  But even then what did the wretched boy mean?

Arrested by the unnatural fascination of opportunity, Miss Flynn received before lunch a telegram from Colonel Chart—an order for dinner and a vehicle; he and Godfrey were to arrive at six o’clock.  Adela had plenty of occupation for the interval, since she was pitying her father when she wasn’t rejoicing that her mother had gone too soon to know.  She flattered herself she made out the providential reason of that cruelty now.  She found time however still to wonder for what purpose, given the situation, Godfrey was to be brought down.  She wasn’t unconscious indeed that she had little general knowledge of what usually was done with young men in that predicament.  One talked about the situation, but the situation was an abyss.  She felt this still more when she found, on her father’s arrival, that nothing apparently was to happen as she had taken for granted it would.  There was an inviolable hush over the whole affair, but no tragedy, no publicity, nothing ugly.  The tragedy had been in town—the faces of the two men spoke of it in spite of their other perfunctory aspects; and at present there was only a family dinner, with Beatrice and Muriel and the governess—with almost a company tone too, the result of the desire to avoid publicity.  Adela admired her father; she knew what he was feeling if Mrs. Godfrey had been at him, and yet she saw him positively gallant.  He was mildly austere, or rather even—what was it?—august; just as, coldly equivocal, he never looked at his son, so that at moments he struck her as almost sick with sadness.  Godfrey was equally inscrutable and therefore wholly different from what he had been as he stood before her in the park.  If he was to start on his career (with such a wife!—wouldn’t she utterly blight it?) he was already professional enough to know how to wear a mask.

Before they rose from table she felt herself wholly bewildered, so little were such large causes traceable in their effects.  She had nerved herself for a great ordeal, but the air was as sweet as an anodyne.  It was perfectly plain to her that her father was deadly sore—as pathetic as a person betrayed.  He was broken, but he showed no resentment; there was a weight on his heart, but he had lightened it by dressing as immaculately as usual for dinner.  She asked herself what immensity of a row there could have been in town to have left his anger so spent.  He went through everything, even to sitting with his son after dinner.  When they came out together he invited Beatrice and Muriel to the billiard-room, and as Miss Flynn discreetly withdrew Adela was left alone with Godfrey, who was completely changed and not now in the least of a rage.  He was broken too, but not so pathetic as his father.  He was only very correct and apologetic he said to his sister: “I’m awfully sorry you were annoyed—it was something I never dreamed of.”

She couldn’t think immediately what he meant; then she grasped the reference to her extraordinary invader.  She was uncertain, however, what tone to take; perhaps his father had arranged with him that they were to make the best of it.  But she spoke her own despair in the way she murmured “Oh Godfrey, Godfrey, is it true?”

“I’ve been the most unutterable donkey—you can say what you like to me.  You can’t say anything worse than I’ve said to myself.”

“My brother, my brother!”—his words made her wail it out.  He hushed her with a movement and she asked: “What has father said?”

He looked very high over her head.  “He’ll give her six hundred a year.”

“Ah the angel!”—it was too splendid.

“On condition”—Godfrey scarce blinked—“she never comes near me.  She has solemnly promised, and she’ll probably leave me alone to get the money.  If she doesn’t—in diplomacy—I’m lost.”  He had been turning his eyes vaguely about, this way and that, to avoid meeting hers; but after another instant he gave up the effort and she had the miserable confession of his glance.  “I’ve been living in hell.”

“My brother, my brother!” she yearningly repeated.

“I’m not an idiot; yet for her I’ve behaved like one.  Don’t ask me—you mustn’t know.  It was all done in a day, and since then fancy my condition; fancy my work in such a torment; fancy my coming through at all.”

“Thank God you passed!” she cried.  “You were wonderful!”

“I’d have shot myself if I hadn’t been.  I had an awful day yesterday with the governor; it was late at night before it was over.  I leave England next week.  He brought me down here for it to look well—so that the children shan’t know.”

“He’s wonderful too!” Adela murmured.

“Wonderful too!” Godfrey echoed.

“Did she tell him?” the girl went on.

“She came straight to Seymour Street from here.  She saw him alone first; then he called me in.  That luxury lasted about an hour.”

“Poor, poor father!” Adela moaned at this; on which her brother remained silent.  Then after he had alluded to it as the scene he had lived in terror of all through his cramming, and she had sighed forth again her pity and admiration for such a mixture of anxieties and such a triumph of talent, she pursued: “Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

“What you said you would—what I did.”

Godfrey turned away as if at present he had very little interest in that inferior tribulation.  “I was angry with you, but I cooled off.  I held my tongue.”

She clasped her hands.  “You thought of mamma!”

“Oh don’t speak of mamma!” he cried as in rueful tenderness.

It was indeed not a happy moment, and she murmured: “No; if you had thought of her—!”

This made Godfrey face her again with a small flare in his eyes.  “Oh then it didn’t prevent.  I thought that woman really good.  I believed in her.”

“Is she very bad?”

“I shall never mention her to you again,” he returned with dignity.

“You may believe I won’t speak of her!  So father doesn’t know?” the girl added.

“Doesn’t know what?”

“That I said what I did to Mrs. Churchley.”

He had a momentary pause.  “I don’t think so, but you must find out for yourself.”

“I shall find out,” said Adela.  “But what had Mrs. Churchley to do with it?”

“With my misery?  I told her.  I had to tell some one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He appeared—though but after an instant—to know exactly why.  “Oh you take things so beastly hard—you make such rows.”  Adela covered her face with her hands and he went on: “What I wanted was comfort—not to be lashed up.  I thought I should go mad.  I wanted Mrs. Churchley to break it to father, to intercede for me and help him to meet it.  She was awfully kind to me, she listened and she understood; she could fancy how it had happened.  Without her I shouldn’t have pulled through.  She liked me, you know,” he further explained, and as if it were quite worth mentioning—all the more that it was pleasant to him.  “She said she’d do what she could for me.  She was full of sympathy and resource.  I really leaned on her.  But when you cut in of course it spoiled everything.  That’s why I was so furious with you.  She couldn’t do anything then.”

Adela dropped her hands, staring; she felt she had walked in darkness.  “So that he had to meet it alone?”