A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada

“There,” she said.

Mrs. Phillips groaned.

“I cannot endure that woman. Who are you having to lunch as well?”

“Mr. Herbert, Mr. Wainbridge, you and I.”

“Shall I ask papa? He is so cheerful.”

“Do, if you think he will not be bored.”

“My dear, he admires you immensely.”

Sir John Bloomfield was a cheerful old gentleman; he took this world as it treated him, and that was well. He had been married twice. The second lady, Lily’s stepmother, had money, and did not live long. She had taken life seriously, and it killed her. Sir John’s curly hair was white, and also his moustache; he wore his hat with a gentle incline to one side of his head. It gave him a rakish air of joviality; he affected the society of young married women, all except his daughters – he took no interest in either of them. He came to lunch on Sunday, fresh from a stroll with a delightful young woman, after an hour’s contemplation of the smartest bonnets in church, and having listened to the cleverest preacher in London, whose sermons lasted ten minutes only. He was a brilliant man.

They were all in the drawing-room when Mrs. Carden rustled in.

Sir John attached himself to Launa as he objected to elderly ladies, because they were so apt to take it for granted that his opinions were like theirs – middle-aged – and Sir John was quite modern.

At lunch Mrs. Carden sat between Mr. Herbert and Sir John, who devoted himself to Launa. There was another reason to account for his youthful air – he had not the gluttonous enjoyment of food the middle-aged and old acquire.

Mr. Herbert was absorbed in his lunch. Mrs. Carden began to talk. She was hungry, but the waves of Sir John’s anecdotes threatened to engulf her and to reduce her to silence.

She talked of music halls and of morality. In those days both were subjects of conversation and of argument.

“I hate morality,” said Launa. “It means nothing. It is only a name. Maud is so fond of talking of it. Maud is very vulgar.”

Mrs. Carden pushed away her plate with impatience. She ate the pudding afterwards, for it was excellent. She was horrified.

Sir John helped himself to cream with deliberation. Mr. Wainbridge looked at Launa. Mrs. Phillips saw the look and interpreted it.

“My dear Miss Archer,” said Sir John, “the world is very hard; its rules are firm and not easily broken.”

“I do not agree with you,” said Mrs. Carden. “They are broken with impunity very easily.”

“Probably you do not agree with me,” said Sir John. “I haven’t tried to break any. I do not speak from experience.”

“The world does not mind its rules being broken,” said Mrs. Phillips. “It minds only when it discovers the hole and is obliged to notice it.”

“There are saints to whom the good people would not, could not speak,” said Sir John.

“Purity and morality are often mistaken,” said Launa, “by the world. It is unjust, and justice is cruelty.”

“It is law,” observed Mr. Wainbridge, with a sigh.

“Law and the promises,” said Sir John.

“Prophets,” corrected Mrs. Carden.

“Promises are interesting,” he continued, talking rapidly because he knew he had made a mistake. “A man should always keep a promise.”

“No,” said Launa.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“I would rather hear the truth,” said Launa, “even if it hurt. One moment’s pain would be better than days of regret.”

Mrs. Carden shook her head and waved her hands. Pantomime was her only resource.

Sir John assumed his spritely air.

“We are too sad; we are discussing such uninteresting subjects. No man ever breaks a promise to such charming ladies as there are here. Lily, tell us about your river adventures.”

“Ask Jack.”

Mr. Herbert smiled.

“We went out in the boat every day – Lily rowed occasionally and I rowed frequently. We disagreed on various subjects every day, on the marriage question and on – on – ”

“On what?” said Launa.

“On that – ”

They laughed together.

“What is ‘that’?” said Mrs. Carden.

“A preposition,” answered Mr. Herbert shortly.

“Oh, no,” said Lily, “it’s a pronoun.”

“ ‘That’ is an adverb,” said Mrs. Carden. “Launa, I shall tell Maud that you called her – vulgar.”

“Oh! do.”

“Women always tell,” said Mr. Herbert. “I told a woman something once and she told. She – ”

“I am not a woman,” said Mrs. Carden, “who carries tales.”

“But you are going to tell someone what Miss Archer said of her,” observed Mr. Herbert. “Men don’t do that.”

“Ah!”

“Nobody tells, really.”

“I did not tell, Jack,” said Mrs. Phillips.

“Tell us now,” said Sir John. “If you get the credit of telling we may as well derive some amusement from the story. Miss Archer, what do men usually tell you.”

“Different things. They do not confide in me. I am not sympathetic enough.”

“Are you not?” inquired Mr. Wainbridge. “I think you are. I should love to confide in you.”

He looked again at her, so did Mr. Herbert, and Lily observing both looks concerned herself with Mr. Herbert’s, which was one of admiration – developing admiration.

It was then that marriage with him appeared desirable, or rather the owning of him would be pleasant. Mrs. Phillips imagined her wedding and the wedding dress! He could admire another woman!

They got up from the table, and Mrs. Phillips stayed with the men to smoke. After his cigarette Sir John went to the Club. Mrs. Carden seated herself on a sofa and demanded a footstool, then when Launa announced an engagement for the afternoon, Lavinia arose and took her departure. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge drove off in a hansom.

“Do you think they are really going to hear music?” asked Mr. Herbert, when Lily and he were alone.

“Why not?”

“Because it is so hot, and because I would much rather talk to you here, so I naturally suppose every other man would rather talk to the woman he loves than listen to any music. I have made up my mind to marry you in a month.”

She smiled enigmatically.

“Very well. You know my bargain. I cannot live with my sister; she swamps me. Her mind and her life are like a bog. It is dull living alone; you would provide an element of excitement.”

“You say marriage is not love. Is it exciting?” he asked.

“A husband should be reviving,” she answered, “and should endeavour to be – a lover – always.”

Mr. Herbert came over to her.

“I shall always be your lover.”

“And you agree to my conditions?”

“You are to keep your rooms; I am to keep mine. Is that it?”

“Yes. What else?”

“We are seldom to have breakfast together.”

“Very seldom,” she answered.

“After our honeymoon?”

“After our – after that – yes,” she said.

“But dinner always.”

“Dinner often,” she corrected.

“Take off your rings,” he said.

Mrs. Phillips frowned.

“You are too commanding.”

“Please.”

“You do it,” and she held out her hand.

He gravely pulled off first one with two large turquoises – he had given it to her – next a small one with a diamond, then her wedding ring which he put in his pocket, and replaced it with one almost exactly like it.

“With my body I thee worship,” he said, and he added a ring with three large sapphires in a light gold setting. The stones were set high and they shone.

“You do not wear his ring now.”

“How beautiful the stones are,” she answered.

“I have always been jealous of that ring,” he said.

“Have you? ‘Jealousy is as cruel as the grave,’ saith Solomon. Do not be cruel.”

“I could not be anything with you but kind,” he replied, with a sort of unsteadiness, for though she was not lovely she was alluring, fascinating. He could have followed her away from everything, through disasters and fire without feeling it, until she left him.

“The honeymoon was invented for Adam and Eve before the Fall,” she said slowly, “and before the appearance of the serpent. Is there necessarily a serpent now?”

“You spoil everything by analysing it,” he replied. “You should look on things as a whole, and not dissect them; that is one of your own maxims. You told it to me when I asked of what your new hat was made. You said it was a whole and a creation.”

“But honeymoons are not wholes, nor are emotions. Everything is largely constituted of them.”

“They are moments. Live for one moment.”

“It passes so quickly,” she said, and sighed.

“Then, in a month,” he suggested, with an outward air of boldness, though inwardly he was doubtful and quaking, “you will marry me.”

“In a month! How soon!”

“How far away. Where shall we go for our tour?”

“Not to Paris. I hate Paris.”

“Shall we stay in London?”

“No, no! How commonplace! We shall live in London. Suggest something new.”

“Shall we go into the country? To the real country, where there are nightingales and roses?”

She sang softly:

“The nightingale in fervent songDoth woo the rose the whole night long.”

“Rubinstein, isn’t it?” he asked. “Well, will you come?”

“Yes, it is risky, but I will for once hear the nightingales and feel young again.”

“I love you.”

“Do you? Love – it is so old, so new, so impossible.”

“For always,” he said, not answering her, only following the train of thought in his own mind.

“No, not for always,” she said sadly, “Love me really for a week, a day, a year – while the nightingales sing. I would rather have a man’s whole love for one day, than his toleration for years, his agreeable acceptation of my presence.”

“A man usually loves his wife.”

“Does he? Does he? You know that is rubbish. You love me now, and you think you will always. A wife is associated with a man’s disagreeable pleasures, his duty dinners, his dull breakfasts. When he goes to dine at his Colonel’s, or with the man who has influence, and runs the papers, she goes and bores him too. If you were compelled to take the other man’s wife out to dinner you would appreciate the attributes of your own when you returned to her.”

“A man loves his future wife before matrimony. But, Lily, afterwards I think it is your own fault.”

“Mine?” she exclaimed. “Mine – you forget – you – ”

“Dearest, I did not mean you. I meant indefinite woman. It will never be your fault.”

She looked at him.

“You apologised in time – I was haughty. Sit there, near, but not too near me.”

He seated himself in a little chair.

“That chair will break. Sit somewhere else.”

“To return to the subject of matrimony,” she said.

“Of breakfast.”

“A woman lets her husband see too much of her, and know too much about her. She frequently looks ugly. Oh, Dr. Jaegar, thou art answerable for much woe! Breakfast is a disturbing meal, for we sometimes are weary at breakfast and – you may have yours alone.”

“I would like it better with you.”

“That is it,” she exclaimed. “Now you would. Soon you would not. You must make a man do without what he loves, to keep his love. Men are so unreasonable.”

“Do you believe in anyone, Lily?”

“No. Yes, I do.”

“Tell me,” he asked eagerly, “in whom do you believe?”

“In myself.”

CHAPTER IX

Launa and Mr. Wainbridge drove to the concert – a private one – where Herr Donau was going to play the piano for his hostess – Lady Blake, Launa, and a friend.

The day was hot, terribly so. The heat rose from the ground, the houses, and the pavement; it struck one like a fiery draught from a furnace. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge were silent; they knew each other well enough to be so. He was pondering. Though he found her interesting he did not agree with her at all about many things, but therein lay her power of attracting him, for she did not care whether she did or not. She did not pretend this as many women do, when men always are aware of it.

“I am hot,” she said.

“And you look cool.”

“I am wishing to be where I could hear the river ripple, and hear the sound of the water as it curls over the rocks. I wish I could see the big lake where it widens, where the pines and the maples grow. Oh, the smell of the wind there!”

“Why won’t you come and sit in the park instead of going to hear Donau?”

“Because I can imagine myself in that far-off land when Donau is playing,” she answered. “I can shut my eyes and feel the wind; I see the water just rippled and then still. In the park it is civilised and hot; the trees are beautiful, but not like those I love. The grass is green, but the wind is parching, and it is town-laden; it is – ” She stopped. “Who is that?”

He started at the tone of her voice. It was full of apprehension, of a sort of cold joy, as if she had fought, and was glad to be beaten.

He asked, “Where?”

“I thought I saw someone – someone I knew – someone – Oh, I want to stop, to get out. It is stifling here.”

“There are so many people,” he replied. “I did not notice anyone. Was it a woman? We are nearly there now. Do not get out.”

“No – never mind. It was imagination. I thought I saw – it could not have been really.”

“Ah,” he said, “imagination is deceiving and becoming. You have grown most beautifully flushed. You are very good to look at, Miss Archer.”

“You must talk to Lady Blake,” said Launa. “I am tired.”

The room into which they were shown was dark, cool, and flower-scented. Lady Blake was dressed in black. She was a woman men loved for an hour, a dance, or a day. Sir Godfrey Blake had married her after a short acquaintance. Immediately afterwards he went into Parliament, and now sat out all the debates, and was seldom at home. Men pitied her, women shook their heads, while she loudly lamented a cold husband, and was consoled by other men.

“We have been waiting for you,” she said. “Herr Donau is ready to begin.”

She gloried in her riches, and she was musical, though in the days of her poverty she had not been. Shilling seats and deprivations did not suit her; but to be able to pay the most expensive successful pianist in London for a whole afternoon to play to her and one or two chosen ones, what a triumph! That was success. And if she did not enjoy the music she did derive great satisfaction from saying, “Donau played for us on Sunday; he played marvellously. Of course we paid him.”

“Miss Archer’s imagination has been causing her to see people – a person,” said Mr. Wainbridge, as he shook hands with Lady Blake.

He wanted to see Launa grow red again, as well as to discover who she thought she had seen.

She laughed.

“Was it a ghost?” asked Lady Blake.

She looked uncomfortable. She had some ghosts behind her – a brother and sister who were poor, and who lived at Clapham. They worked, and she ignored them.

“A ghost!” repeated Wainbridge. “Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Archer?”

“Do I? Souls of the dead! I wish I could see them.”

“Don’t!” exclaimed Lady Blake. I believe in premonitory warnings. You did not see me walking, did you, Miss Archer? I hope not.”

“No, I only saw an old friend – an old Canadian friend. But it was only in fancy, for the next moment it was gone.”

There was a slight pause when she said “it was gone.” Mr. Wainbridge noticed she used “it.”

Lady Blake said “Oh” sadly, and then continued: “Premonitory warnings are so interesting. Was the friend an old, I mean an ancient grey-headed friend, or only old as regards the time of friendship? Was it a woman?”

“It was a spirit,” said Launa.

“You will hear of a death,” said Lady Blake with solemnity.

“It is already dead,” replied Launa.

“To you?” asked Mr. Wainbridge.

“Are we not going to hear Herr Donau play?” inquired Launa. “You have not forgotten you are to play the Waldstein Sonata for me?” she said to Herr Donau.

“I have not forgotten. Shall I begin?”

“Do,” said Lady Blake, seating herself in a chair covered with cream-coloured material.

Her black dress, yellow hair, and white skin had an ideal, an arranged background. Ideals have to be well arranged, otherwise they are deficient. Launa sat in a dim corner; Mr. Wainbridge chose a chair from which he could observe her.

She was listening intently; she had often played the Waldstein to Paul, and she wanted to see how Donau would play the octave run. Through it all she could think of Paul. Had she really seen him? No, he was not in England. Could he be dead?.. Donau played the run beautifully… Could Paul be dead? Donau played the octaves with one hand – glïssando. Wonderful! Launa glanced round her; no one appeared to have noticed. Lady Blake was keeping time with her head and her foot. Time in the Waldstein! Launa felt a great wave of longing, of desire for the woods, lakes, and the vastness of the real forest, and for the air. Oh! that air! Keen sometimes, sweet, full of the smell of wild flowers, of the pine woods – and where was Paul?

The Waldstein went on and on. To her it meant spring days, movement, hope, but not in the overcrowded old land. To the others it meant different things – music always does – and Launa’s mind returned to the impression of the afternoon. It could not have been Paul alive that she had seen? Could it be that he was dead, and because she loved him, he came to her? Did she love him? She heard the wailing of the Indian child. But if Paul were dead, he was hers – hers – hers —

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ceasing of the piano and the compliments of Lady Blake and Mr. Wainbridge.

“You were asleep,” said Mr. Wainbridge to Launa.

“No. My thoughts were wandering.”

“With more spirits?”

“Mr. Wainbridge, come here,” said Lady Blake. “Come and see this; it is by Herr Donau. Play it, do, Herr Donau, and then Miss Archer has promised to play ‘Warum.’ ”

“There is a history in that,” said Launa, when the great man had finished. “There is an unravelled thread in it.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “there is. You have understanding, Miss Archer.”

“And now, will you play ‘Warum?’ ” asked Lady Blake.

“To hear Miss Archer play ‘Warum’ is one of the world’s desires,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “because you puzzle it – the world, I mean.”

She did not answer. Lady Blake rehearsed speeches to all her dear and jealous friends while the music lasted. She would say “Donau and Miss Archer played for us during a whole afternoon.” She had triumphed.

Launa drove home alone. Mr. Wainbridge to his regret had an engagement. He said good-bye to her with sorrow, while she was indifferent. There was something in the spirit theory after all.

Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were still sitting at Victoria Mansions. She had changed her dress for a tea-gown and invited him to dinner. The evening was hot. Launa dressed in white and went to the music-room. Conversation did not appeal to her. She began to play, to work hard at an impossible sonata. The hard work was taking away her weariness, the feeling of misery and longing when the door was opened and Captain Carden came in.

“I did not let your maid announce me. I wanted to surprise you, Launa,” he said, advancing with an air of expectation. “She said you were not at home, but I heard the piano, and I knew you would see me.”

He held out his hand.

“I will finish this page,” she said, not taking the hand thus affably extended, and playing on.

Captain Carden seated himself near and stared at her. She could feel his eyes taking her in, all over, gloating over her, but she finished and sat on the music-stool, turning herself round until she faced him.

“Your mother was here to lunch.”

“Yes, Launa, she told me so.”

“Did you want to see me particularly?” she asked. “I suppose you did, because I said ‘not at home.’ I am very tired and in a musical mood.”

He smiled languidly and leaned back.

“You don’t mean that, Launa.”

His detestable habit of repeating her name irritated her. She looked at him.

“Why do you never call me Charlie? We are relations.”

“Are we?” she asked.

“Yes. That is one reason why I came, and then my mother asked me to come and see you. She and I are both worried. Mother thinks – ”

“Do think yourself; you remind me of Uriah Heep.”

“My mother thinks,” he continued with a sort of leer, “that you are lonely. She fears the friends you have, the contamination of their talk about no morals – she says – ”

Launa got up.

“You will either go away or else you will talk of something else. Speak for yourself, pray. I do not care what your mother thinks.”

Captain Carden looked at her.

“Don’t get cross. You know I am in love with you, and I want to marry you. It will be such an advantage to you, an unknown Canadian, to marry into a good old English family, and to be well looked after.”

She was silent, first from surprise, then from anger. It was as if the words would not come rapidly enough.

“Thank you,” she said. “I decline your insulting offer. Now will you go?”

“Now, Launa, you know it is the best thing you can do. I am really in love with you. You will have some of your own money settled on you, of course, and you will have an excellent position and be thought a great deal of as my wife.”

“I will never be your wife,” she answered. “Never.”

“All girls want to marry; you do. They all do. I like a girl who pretends to be backward, but this is enough, Launa. Give in now, you know how I love you, you – ”

Launa’s cheeks were blazing, she got up and rang the bell violently. He followed, unseen by her, until she felt his arm on her waist; his face was detestably close, his eyes staring into hers, glaring like an animal’s, and his breath was hot against her face. She gave him one firm push; she had not paddled so much in vain; her arms were very strong, and he did not expect it. He staggered across the room, upsetting a little table and breaking some china ornaments which fell with a crash as he sprawled on the floor. Just then the maid opened the door, and Mr. Wainbridge walked in.

“Curtis, show Captain Carden out,” said Launa, apparently with calm indifference.

She looked very tall, slight, and angry, as she stood waiting. Captain Carden gathered himself together with a sheepish look, and advanced towards her.

“Good-bye, Launa.”

“Go,” she said.

“Launa, say good-bye.”

And as the door closed she threw herself into a big chair and laughed. Captain Carden heard it as he left the flat and detected nothing but ridicule in it. Mr. Wainbridge went over to her; he saw she would have cried had she not laughed, and that her nerves were all unstrung.

“Why didn’t you tell me to kick him out? He deserved it.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

She put her hands over her face, and began to sob. He stroked her hair gently, tenderly, and she liked it.

“I am an idiot! I am an idiot!” she said at last.

“What did he do?”

“How did you come? You were dining at the Grays’, I thought you said?”

“I came because I wanted to see you.”

She dried her eyes and leaned back in her chair and looked out at the night, feeling the curious rest of exhaustion. The greyness of twilight crept into the room, it was peaceful though still sultry. He took her hand and said:

“I am glad I came.”

“So am I,” she said, cheerfully. Her mood had changed. “You saved me from unknown bother. He was most impertinent.”

In the other room Mrs. Phillips was becoming impatient. She was hungry. At tea-time Herbert’s conversation engrossed her, and now where was dinner?

She was also anxious to create a sensation, to surprise Launa and everyone by telling of her speedy marriage, which was to take place in one month exactly. And so she went into the music-room.

“Has that awful Carden man gone? I am so hungry, Launa dear. Do say you are hungry too, Mr. Wainbridge. I am going to be married in a month.”

She sighed.

“No wonder, then, that you are hungry,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “with that awful prospect you need restoratives of all sorts.”

“Lucky Mr. Herbert,” said Launa. “I congratulate him.”

“How nice of you,” said Mrs. Phillips. “I feared you might be small minded enough to congratulate me. He is in the drawing-room – starving too.”

“Let us go, then, to dinner,” said Launa. “Mr. Herbert, you are so lucky.”

“That is good of you,” he answered.

“Merely decent of her,” said Mrs. Phillips. “She knows my worth.”

“How are the spirits?” asked Wainbridge, as Launa and he followed the other two into the dining-room.

“Good. Look at my eyes. Are they red?”