Fraternity

As those words of swan song died away he swayed and trembled, and suddenly disappeared below the sight-line, as if he had sat down. The little model took his place in the open window. She started at seeing Hilary; then, motionless, stood gazing at him. Out of the gloom of the opening her eyes were all pupil, two spots of the surrounding darkness imprisoned in a face as pale as any flower. Rigid as the girl herself, Hilary looked up at her.

A voice behind him said: “How are you? I thought I’d give my car a run.” Mr. Purcey was coming from the gate, his eyes fixed on the window where the girl stood. “How is your wife?” he added.

The bathos of this visit roused an acid fury in Hilary. He surveyed Mr. Purcey’s figure from his cloth-topped boots to his tall hat, and said: “Shall we go in and find her?”

As they went along Mr. Purcey said: “That’s the young – the – er – model I met in your wife’s studio, isn’t it? Pretty girl!”

Hilary compressed his lips.

“Now, what sort of living do those girls make?” pursued Mr. Purcey. “I suppose they’ve most of them other resources. Eh, what?”

“They make the living God will let them, I suppose, as other people do.”

Mr. Purcey gave him a sharp look. It was almost as if Dallison had meant to snub him.

“Oh, exactly! I should think this girl would have no difficulty.” And suddenly he saw a curious change come over “that writing fellow,” as he always afterwards described Hilary. Instead of a mild, pleasant-looking chap enough, he had become a regular cold devil.

“My wife appears to be out,” Hilary said. “I also have an engagement.”

In his surprise and anger Mr. Purcey said with great simplicity, “Sorry I’m ‘de trop'!” and soon his car could be heard bearing him away with some unnecessary noise.

CHAPTER XXXII

BEHIND BIANCA’S VEIL

But Bianca was not out. She had been a witness of Hilary’s long look at the little model. Coming from her studio through the glass passage to the house, she could not, of course, see what he was gazing at, but she knew as well as if the girl had stood before her in the dark opening of the window. Hating herself for having seen, she went to her room, and lay on her bed with her hands pressed to her eyes. She was used to loneliness – that necessary lot of natures such as hers; but the bitter isolation of this hour was such as to drive even her lonely nature to despair.

She rose at last, and repaired the ravages made in her face and dress, lest anyone should see that she was suffering. Then, first making sure that Hilary had left the garden, she stole out.

She wandered towards Hyde Park. It was Whitsuntide, a time of fear to the cultivated Londoner. The town seemed all arid jollity and paper bags whirled on a dusty wind. People swarmed everywhere in clothes which did not suit them; desultory, dead-tired creatures who, in these few green hours of leisure out of the sandy eternity of their toil, were not suffered to rest, but were whipped on by starved instincts to hunt pleasures which they longed for too dreadfully to overtake.

Bianca passed an old tramp asleep beneath a tree. His clothes had clung to him so long and lovingly that they were falling off, but his face was calm as though masked with the finest wax. Forgotten were his sores and sorrows; he was in the blessed fields of sleep.

Bianca hastened away from the sight of such utter peace. She wandered into a grove of trees which had almost eluded the notice of the crowd. They were limes, guarding still within them their honey bloom. Their branches of light, broad leaves, near heart-shaped, were spread out like wide skirts. The tallest of these trees, a beautiful, gay creature, stood tremulous, like a mistress waiting for her tardy lover. What joy she seemed to promise, what delicate enticement, with every veined quivering leaf! And suddenly the sun caught hold of her, raised her up to him, kissed her all over; she gave forth a sigh of happiness, as though her very spirit had travelled through her lips up to her lover’s heart.

A woman in a lilac frock came stealing through the trees towards Bianca, and sitting down not far off, kept looking quickly round under her sunshade.

Presently Bianca saw what she was looking for. A young man in black coat and shining hat came swiftly up and touched her shoulder. Half hidden by the foliage they sat, leaning forward, prodding gently at the ground with stick and parasol; the stealthy murmur of their talk, so soft and intimate that no word was audible, stole across the grass; and secretly he touched her hand and arm. They were not of the holiday crowd, and had evidently chosen out this vulgar afternoon for a stolen meeting.

Bianca rose and hurried on amongst the trees. She left the Park. In the streets many couples, not so careful to conceal their intimacy, were parading arm-in-arm. The sight of them did not sting her like the sight of those lovers in the Park; they were not of her own order. But presently she saw a little boy and girl asleep on the doorstep of a mansion, with their cheeks pressed close together and their arms round each other, and again she hurried on. In the course of that long wandering she passed the building which “Westminister” was so anxious to avoid. In its gateway an old couple were just about to separate, one to the men’s, the other to the women’s quarters. Their toothless mouths were close together. “Well, goodnight, Mother!” “Good-night, Father, good-night-take care o’ yourself!”

Once more Bianca hurried on.

It was past nine when she turned into the Old Square, and rang the bell of her sister’s house with the sheer physical desire to rest – somewhere that was not her home.

At one end of the long, low drawing-room Stephen, in evening dress, was reading aloud from a review. Cecilia was looking dubiously at his sock, where she seemed to see a tiny speck of white that might be Stephen. In the window at the far end Thyme and Martin were exchanging speeches at short intervals; they made no move at Bianca’s entrance; and their faces said: “We have no use for that handshaking nonsense!”

Receiving Cecilia’s little, warm, doubting kiss and Stephen’s polite, dry handshake, Bianca motioned to him not to stop reading. He resumed. Cecilia, too, resumed her scrutiny of Stephen’s sock.

‘Oh dear!’ she thought. ‘I know B.'s come here because she’s unhappy. Poor thing! Poor Hilary! It’s that wretched business again, I suppose.’

Skilled in every tone of Stephen’s voice, she knew that Bianca’s entry had provoked the same train of thought in him; to her he seemed reading out these words: ‘I disapprove – I disapprove. She’s Cis’s sister. But if it wasn’t for old Hilary I wouldn’t have the subject in the house!’

Bianca, whose subtlety recorded every shade of feeling, could see that she was not welcome. Leaning back with veil raised, she seemed listening to Stephen’s reading, but in fact she was quivering at the sight of those two couples.

Couples, couples – for all but her! What crime had she committed? Why was the china of her cup flawed so that no one could drink from it? Why had she been made so that nobody could love her? This, the most bitter of all thoughts, the most tragic of all questionings, haunted her.

The article which Stephen read – explaining exactly how to deal with people so that from one sort of human being they might become another, and going on to prove that if, after this conversion, they showed signs of a reversion, it would then be necessary to know the reason why – fell dryly on ears listening to that eternal question: Why is it with me as it is? It is not fair! – listening to the constant murmuring of her pride: I am not wanted here or anywhere. Better to efface myself!

From their end of the room Thyme and Martin scarcely looked at her. To them she was Aunt B., an amateur, the mockery of whose eyes sometimes penetrated their youthful armour; they were besides too interested in their conversation to perceive that she was suffering. The skirmish of that conversation had lasted now for many days – ever since the death of the Hughs’ baby.

“Well,” Martin was saying, “what are you going to do? It’s no good to base it on the baby; you must know your own mind all round. You can’t go rushing into real work on mere sentiment.”

“You went to the funeral, Martin. It’s bosh to say you didn’t feel it too!”

Martin deigned no answer to this insinuation.

“We’ve gone past the need for sentiment,” he said: “it’s exploded; so is Justice, administered by an upper class with a patch over one eye and a squint in the other. When you see a dying donkey in a field, you don’t want to refer the case to a society, as your dad would; you don’t want an essay of Hilary’s, full of sympathy with everybody, on ‘Walking in a field: with reflections on the end of donkeys’ – you want to put a bullet in the donkey.”

“You’re always down on Uncle Hilary,” said Thyme.

“I don’t mind Hilary himself; I object to his type.”

“Well, he objects to yours,” said Thyme.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Martin slowly; “he hasn’t got character enough.”

Thyme raised her chin, and, looking at him through half-closed eyes, said: “Well, I do think, of all the conceited persons I ever met you’re the worst.”

Martin’s nostril curled.

“Are you prepared,” he said, “to put a bullet in the donkey, or are you not?”

“I only see one donkey, and not a dying one!”

Martin stretched out his hand and gripped her arm below the elbow. Retaining it luxuriously, he said: “Don’t wander!”

Thyme tried to free her arm. “Let go!”

Martin was looking straight into her eyes. A flush had risen in his cheeks.

Thyme, too, went the colour of the old-rose curtain behind which she sat.

“Let go!”

“I won’t! I’ll make you know your mind. What do you mean to do? Are you coming in a fit of sentiment, or do you mean business?”

Suddenly, half-hypnotised, the young girl ceased to struggle. Her face had the strangest expression of submission and defiance – a sort of pain, a sort of delight. So they sat full half a minute staring at each other’s eyes. Hearing a rustling sound, they looked, and saw Bianca moving to the door. Cecilia, too, had risen.

“What is it, B.?”

Bianca, opening the door, went out. Cecilia followed swiftly, too late to catch even a glimpse of her sister’s face behind the veil…

In Mr. Stone’s room the green lamp burned dimly, and he who worked by it was sitting on the edge of his campbed, attired in his old brown woollen gown and slippers.

And suddenly it seemed to him that he was not alone.

“I have finished for to-night,” he said. “I am waiting for the moon to rise. She is nearly full; I shall see her face from here.”

A form sat down by him on the bed, and a voice said softly:

“Like a woman’s.”

Mr. Stone saw his younger daughter. “You have your hat on. Are you going out, my dear?”

“I saw your light as I came in.”

“The moon,” said Mr. Stone, “is an arid desert. Love is unknown there.”

“How can you bear to look at her, then?” Bianca whispered.

Mr. Stone raised his finger. “She has risen.”

The wan moon had slipped out into the darkness. Her light stole across the garden and through the open window to the bed where they were sitting.

“Where there is no love, Dad,” Bianca said, “there can be no life, can there?”

Mr. Stone’s eyes seemed to drink the moonlight.

“That,” he said, “is the great truth. The bed is shaking!”

With her arms pressed tight across her breast, Bianca was struggling with violent, noiseless sobbing. That desperate struggle seemed to be tearing her to death before his eyes, and Mr. Stone sat silent, trembling. He knew not what to do. From his frosted heart years of Universal Brotherhood had taken all knowledge of how to help his daughter. He could only sit touching her tremulously with thin fingers.

The form beside him, whose warmth he felt against his arm, grew stiller, as though, in spite of its own loneliness, his helplessness had made it feel that he, too; was lonely. It pressed a little closer to him. The moonlight, gaining pale mastery over the flickering lamp, filled the whole room.

Mr. Stone said: “I want her mother!”

The form beside him ceased to struggle.

Finding out an old, forgotten way, Mr. Stone’s arm slid round that quivering body.

“I do not know what to say to her,” he muttered, and slowly he began to rock himself.

“Motion,” he said, “is soothing.”

The moon passed on. The form beside him sat so still that Mr. Stone ceased moving. His daughter was no longer sobbing. Suddenly her lips seared his forehead.

Trembling from that desperate caress, he raised his fingers to the spot and looked round.

She was gone.

CHAPTER XXXIII

HILARY DEALS WITH THE SITUATION

To understand the conduct of Hilary and Bianca at what “Westminister” would have called this “crisax,” not only their feelings as sentient human beings, but their matrimonial philosophy, must be taken into account. By education and environment they belonged to a section of society which had “in those days” abandoned the more old-fashioned views of marriage. Such as composed this section, finding themselves in opposition, not only to the orthodox proprietary creed, but even to their own legal rights, had been driven to an attitude of almost blatant freedom. Like all folk in opposition, they were bound, as a simple matter of principle, to disagree with those in power, to view with a contemptuous resentment that majority which said, “I believe the thing is mine, and mine it shall remain” – a majority which by force of numbers made this creed the law. Unable legally to, be other than the proprietors of wife or husband, as the case might be, they were obliged, even in the most happy unions, to be very careful not to become disgusted with their own position. Their legal status was, as it were, a goad, spurring them on to show their horror of it. They were like children sent to school with trousers that barely reached their knees, aware that they could neither reduce their stature to the proportions of their breeches nor make their breeches grow. They were furnishing an instance of that immemorial “change of form to form” to which Mr. Stone had given the name of Life. In a past age thinkers and dreamers and “artistic pigs” rejecting the forms they found, had given unconscious shape to this marriage law, which, after they had become the wind, had formed itself out of their exiled pictures and thoughts and dreams. And now this particular law in turn was the dried rind, devoid of pips or speculation; and the thinkers and dreamers and “artistic pigs” were again rejecting it, and again themselves in exile.

This exiled faith, this honour amongst thieves, animated a little conversation between Hilary and Bianca on the Tuesday following the night when Mr. Stone sat on his bed to watch the rising moon.

Quietly Bianca said: “I think I shall be going away for a time.”

“Wouldn’t you rather that I went instead?” “You are wanted; I am not.”

That ice-cold, ice-clear remark contained the pith of the whole matter; and Hilary said:

“You are not going at once?”

“At the end of the week, I think.”

Noting his eyes fixed on her, she added:

“Yes; we’re neither of us looking quite our best.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know you are.”

This had been all. It had been sufficient to bring Hilary once more face to face with the situation.

Its constituent elements remained the same; relative values had much changed. The temptations of St. Anthony were becoming more poignant every hour. He had no “principles” to pit against them: he had merely the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he yielded to his inclination he would be faced ultimately with a worse situation than ever. It was not possible for him to look at the position as Mr. Purcey might have done, if his wife had withdrawn from him and a girl had put herself in his way. Neither hesitation because of the defenceless position of the girl, nor hesitation because of his own future with her, would have troubled Mr. Purcey. He – good man – in his straightforward way, would have only thought about the present – not, indeed, intending to have a future with a young person of that class. Consideration for a wife who had withdrawn from the society of Mr. Purcey would also naturally have been absent from the equation. That Hilary worried over all these questions was the mark of his ‘fin de sieclism.’ And in the meantime the facts demanded a decision.

He had not spoken to this girl since the day of the baby’s funeral, but in that long look from the garden he had in effect said: ‘You are drawing me to the only sort of union possible to us!’ And she in effect had answered: ‘Do what you like with me!’

There were other facts, too, to be reckoned with. Hughs would be released to-morrow; the little model would not stop her visits unless forced to; Mr. Stone could not well do without her; Bianca had in effect declared that she was being driven out of her own house. It was this situation which Hilary, seated beneath the bust of Socrates, turned over and over in his mind. Long and painful reflection brought him back continually to the thought that he himself, and not Bianca, had better go away. He was extremely bitter and contemptuous towards himself that he had not done so long ago. He made use of the names Martin had given him. “Hamlet,” “Amateur,” “Invertebrate.” They gave him, unfortunately, little comfort.

In the afternoon he received a visit. Mr. Stone came in with his osier fruit-bag in his hand. He remained standing, and spoke at once.

“Is my daughter happy?”

At this unexpected question Hilary walked over to the fireplace.

“No,” he said at last; “I am afraid she is not.”

“Why?”

Hilary was silent; then, facing the old man, he said:

“I think she will be glad, for certain reasons, if I go away for a time.”

“When are you going?” asked Mr. Stone.

“As soon as I can.”

Mr. Stone’s eyes, wistfully bright, seemed trying to see through heavy fog.

“She came to me, I think,” he said; “I seem to recollect her crying. You are good to her?”

“I have tried to be,” said Hilary.

Mr. Stone’s face was discoloured by a flush. “You have no children,” he said painfully; “do you live together?”

Hilary shook his head.

“You are estranged?” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary bowed. There was a long silence. Mr. Stone’s eyes had travelled to the window.

“Without love there cannot be life,” he said at last; and fixing his wistful gaze on Hilary, asked: “Does she love another?”

Again Hilary shook his head.

When Mr. Stone next spoke it was clearly to himself.

“I do not know why I am glad. Do you love another?”

At this question Hilary’s eyebrows settled in a frown. “What do you mean by love?” he said.

Mr. Stone did not reply; it was evident that he was reflecting deeply. His lips began to move: “By love I mean the forgetfulness of self. Unions are frequent in which only the sexual instincts, or the remembrance of self, are roused – ”

“That is true,” muttered Hilary.

Mr. Stone looked up; painful traces of confusion showed in his face.

“We were discussing something.”

“I was telling you,” said Hilary, “that it would be better for your daughter – if I go away for a time.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone; “you are estranged.”

Hilary went back to his stand before the empty fireplace.

“There is one thing, sir,” he said, “on my conscience to say before I go, and I must leave it to you to decide. The little girl who comes to you no longer lives where she used to live.”

“In that street…” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary went on quickly. “She was obliged to leave because the husband of the woman with whom she used to lodge became infatuated with her. He has been in prison, and comes out tomorrow. If she continues to come here he will, of course, be able to find her. I’m afraid he will pursue her again. Have I made it clear to you?”

“No,” said Mr. Stone.

“The man,” resumed Hilary patiently, “is a poor, violent creature, who has been wounded in the head; he is not quite responsible. He may do the girl an injury.”

“What injury?”

“He has stabbed his wife already.”

“I will speak to him,” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary smiled. “I am afraid that words will hardly meet the case. She ought to disappear.”

There was silence.

“My book!” said Mr. Stone.

It smote Hilary to see how white his face had become. ‘It’s better,’ he thought, ‘to bring his will-power into play; she will never come here, anyway, after I’m gone.’

But, unable to bear the tragedy in the old man’s eyes, he touched him on the arm.

“Perhaps she will take the risk, sir, if you ask her.”

Mr. Stone did not answer, and, not knowing what more to say, Hilary went back to the window. Miranda was slumbering lightly out there in the speckled shade, where it was not too warm and not too cold, her cheek resting on her paw and white teeth showing.

Mr. Stone’s voice rose again. “You are right; I cannot ask her to run a risk like that!”

“She is just coming up the garden,” Hilary said huskily. “Shall I tell her to come in?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.

Hilary beckoned.

The girl came in, carrying a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley; her face fell at sight of Mr. Stone; she stood still, raising the lilies to her breast. Nothing could have been more striking than the change from her look of guttered expectancy to a sort of hard dismay. A spot of red came into both her cheeks. She gazed from Mr. Stone to Hilary and back again. Both were staring at her. No one spoke. The little model’s bosom began heaving as though she had been running; she said faintly: “Look; I brought you this, Mr. Stone!” and held out to him the bunch of lilies. But Mr. Stone made no sign. “Don’t you like them?”

Mr. Stone’s eyes remained fastened on her face.

To Hilary this suspense was, evidently, most distressing. “Come, will you tell her, sir,” he said, “or shall I?”

Mr. Stone spoke.

“I shall try and write my book without you. You must not run this risk. I cannot allow it.”

The little model turned her eyes from side to side. “But I like to copy out your book,” she said.

“The man will injure you,” said Mr. Stone.

The little model looked at Hilary.

“I don’t care if he does; I’m not afraid of him. I can look after myself; I’m used to it.”

“I am going away,” said Hilary quietly.

After a desperate look, that seemed to ask, ‘Am I going, too?’ the little model stood as though frozen.

Wishing to end the painful scene, Hilary went up to Mr. Stone.

“Do you want to dictate to her this afternoon, sir?”

“No,” said Mr. Stone.

“Nor to-morrow?”

“Will you come a little walk with me?”

Mr. Stone bowed.

Hilary turned to the little model. “It is goodbye, then,” he said.

She did not take his hand. Her eyes, turned sideways, glinted; her teeth were fastened on her lower lip. She dropped the lilies, suddenly looked up at him, gulped, and slunk away. In passing she had smeared the lilies with her foot.

Hilary picked up the fragments of the flowers, and dropped them into the grate. The fragrance of the bruised blossoms remained clinging to the air.

“Shall we get ready for our walk?” he said.

Mr. Stone moved feebly to the door, and very soon they were walking silently towards the Gardens.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THYME’S ADVENTURE

This same afternoon Thyme, wheeling a bicycle and carrying a light valise, was slipping into a back street out of the Old Square. Putting her burden down at the pavement’s edge, she blew a whistle. A hansom-cab appeared, and a man in ragged clothes, who seemed to spring out of the pavement, took hold of her valise. His lean, unshaven face was full of wolfish misery.

“Get off with you!” the cabman said.

“Let him do it!” murmured Thyme.

The cab-runner hoisted up the trunk, then waited motionless beside the cab.

Thyme handed him two coppers. He looked at them in silence, and went away.

‘Poor man,’ she thought; ‘that’s one of the things we’ve got to do away with!’

The cab now proceeded in the direction of the Park, Thyme following on her bicycle, and trying to stare about her calmly.

‘This,’ she thought, ‘is the end of the old life. I won’t be romantic, and imagine I’m doing anything special; I must take it all as a matter of course.’ She thought of Mr. Purcey’s face – ‘that person!’ – if he could have seen her at this moment turning her back on comfort. ‘The moment I get there,’ she mused, ‘I shall let mother know; she can come out to-morrow, and see for herself. I can’t have hysterics about my disappearance, and all that. They must get used to the idea that I mean to be in touch with things. I can’t be stopped by what anybody thinks!’