In the Year of Jubilee

‘Desperate? Why?’

‘How can I make you understand what I have gone through? What do you care? And what do I care whether you understand or not? It wasn’t for money, and Beatrice French knew it wasn’t.’

‘Then it must have been that you could not bear the monotony of your life.’

Her answer was a short, careless laugh.

‘Where is this shop? What do you do?’

‘It’s a dress-supply association. I advise fools about the fashions, and exhibit myself as a walking fashion-plate. I can’t see how it should interest you.’

‘Whatever concerns you, Nancy, interests me more than anything else in the world.’

Again she laughed.

‘What more do you want to know?’

She was half turned from him, leaning at the mantelpiece, a foot on the fender.

‘You said just now that you have gone through worse things than the shame of being thought unmarried. Tell me about it all.’

‘Not I, indeed. When I was willing to tell you everything, you didn’t care to hear it. It’s too late now.’

‘It’s not too late, happily, to drag you out of this wretched slough into which you are sinking. Whatever the cost, that shall be done!’

‘Thank you, I am not disposed to let any one drag me anywhere. I want no help; and if I did, you would be the last person I should accept it from. I don’t know why you came here after the agreement we made the other night.’

Tarrant stepped towards her.

‘I came to find out whether you were telling lies about me, and I should never have thought it possible but for my bad conscience. I know you had every excuse for being embittered and for acting revengefully. It seems you have only told lies about yourself. As, after all, you are my wife, I shan’t allow that.’

Once more she turned upon him passionately.

‘I am not your wife! You married me against your will, and shook me off as soon as possible. I won’t be bound to you; I shall act as a free woman.’

‘Bound to me you are, and shall be—as I to you.’

‘You may say it fifty times, and it will mean nothing.—How bound to you? Bound to share my money?’

‘I forgive you that, because I have treated you ill. You don’t mean it either. You know I am incapable of such a thought. But that shall very soon be put right. Your marriage shall be made known at once.’

‘Known to whom?’

‘To the people concerned—to your guardians.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she answered, with a smile. ‘They know it already.’

Tarrant half closed his eyes as he looked at her.

‘What’s the use of such a silly falsehood?’

‘I told you I had gone through a good deal more than you imagined. I have struggled to keep my money, in spite of shames and miseries, and I will have it for myself—and my child! If you want to know the truth, go to Samuel Barmby, and ask him what he has had to do with me. I owe no explanation to you.’

Tarrant could see her face only in profile. Marvelling at the complications she gradually revealed, he felt his blood grow warm with desire of her beauty. She was his wife, yet guarded as by maidenhood. A familiar touch would bring the colour to her cheeks, the light of resentment to her eyes. Passion made him glad of the estrangement which compelled a new wooing, and promised, on her part, a new surrender.

‘You don’t owe it me, Nancy; but if I beg you to tell me all—because I have come to my senses again—because I know how foolish and cruel I have been—’

‘Remember what we agreed. Go your way, and let me go mine.’

‘I had no idea of what I was agreeing to. I took it for granted that your marriage was strictly a secret, and that you might be free in the real sense if you chose.’

‘Yes, and you were quite willing, because it gave you your freedom as well. I am as free as I wish to be. I have made a life for myself that satisfies me—and now you come to undo everything. I won’t be tormented—I have endured enough.’

‘Then only one course is open to me. I shall publish your marriage everywhere. I shall make a home for you, and have the child brought to it; then come or not, as you please.’

At mention of the child Nancy regarded him with cold curiosity.

‘How are you to make a home for me? I thought you had difficulty enough in supporting yourself.’

‘That is no concern of yours. It shall be done, and in a day or two. Then make your choice.’

‘You think I can be forced to live with a man I don’t love?’

‘I shouldn’t dream of living with a woman who didn’t love me. But you are married, and a mother, and the secrecy that is degrading you shall come to an end. Acknowledge me or not, I shall acknowledge you, and make it known that I am to blame for all that has happened.’

‘And what good will you do?’

‘I shall do good to myself, at all events. I’m a selfish fellow, and shall be so to the end, no doubt.’

Nancy glanced at him to interpret the speech by his expression. He was smiling.

‘What good will it do you to have to support me? The selfishness I see in it is your wishing to take me from a comfortable home and make me poor.’

‘That can’t be helped. And, what’s more, you won’t think it a hardship.’

‘How do you know that? I have borne dreadful degradations rather than lose my money.’

‘That was for the child’s sake, not for your own.’

He said it softly and kindly, and for the first time Nancy met his eyes without defiance.

‘It was; I could always have earned my own living, somehow.’

Tarrant paused a moment, then spoke with look averted.

‘Is he well, and properly cared for?’

‘If he were not well and safe, I shouldn’t be away from him.’

‘When will you let me see him, Nancy?’

She did not smile, but there was a brightening of her countenance, which she concealed. Tarrant stepped to her side.

‘Dear—my own love—will you try to forgive me? It was all my cursed laziness. It would never have happened if I hadn’t fallen into poverty. Poverty is the devil, and it overcame me.’

‘How can you think that I shall be strong enough to face it?’ she asked, moving half a step away. ‘Leave me to myself; I am contented; I have made up my mind about what is before me, and I won’t go through all that again.’

Tired of standing, she dropped upon the nearest chair, and lay back.

‘You can’t be contented, Nancy, in a position that dishonours you. From what you tell me, it seems that your secret is no secret at all. Will you compel me to go to that man Barmby and seek information from him about my own wife?’

‘I have had to do worse things than that.’

‘Don’t torture me by such vague hints. I entreat you to tell me at once the worst that you have suffered. How did Barmby get to know of your marriage? And why has he kept silent about it? There can’t be anything that you are ashamed to say.’

‘No. The shame is all yours.’

‘I take it upon myself, all of it; I ought never to have left you; but that baseness followed only too naturally on the cowardice which kept me from declaring our marriage when honour demanded it. I have played a contemptible part in this story; don’t refuse to help me now that I am ready to behave more like a man. Put your hand in mine, and let us be friends, if we mayn’t be more.’

She sat irresponsive.

‘You were a brave girl. You consented to my going away because it seemed best, and I took advantage of your sincerity. Often enough that last look of yours has reproached me. I wonder how I had the heart to leave you alone.’

Nancy raised herself, and said coldly:

‘It was what I might have expected. I had only my own folly to thank. You behaved as most men would.’

This was a harder reproach than any yet. Tarrant winced under it. He would much rather have been accused of abnormal villainy.

‘And I was foolish,’ continued Nancy, ‘in more ways than you knew. You feared I had told Jessica Morgan of our marriage, and you were right; of course I denied it. She has been the cause of my worst trouble.’

In rapid sentences she told the story of her successive humiliations, recounted her sufferings at the hands of Jessica and Beatrice and Samuel Barmby. When she ceased, there were tears in her eyes.

‘Has Barmby been here again?’ Tarrant asked sternly.

‘Yes. He has been twice, and talked in just the same way, and I had to sit still before him—’

‘Has he said one word that—?’

‘No, no,’ she interrupted hastily. ‘He’s only a fool—not man enough to—’

‘That saves me trouble,’ said Tarrant; ‘I have only to treat him like a fool. My poor darling, what vile torments you have endured! And you pretend that you would rather live on this fellow’s interested generosity—for, of course, he hopes to be rewarded—than throw the whole squalid entanglement behind you and be a free, honest woman, even if a poor one?’

‘I see no freedom.’

‘You have lost all your love for me. Well, I can’t complain of that. But bear my name you shall, and be supported by me. I tell you that it was never possible for me actually to desert you and the little one—never possible. I shirked a duty as long as I could; that’s all it comes to. I loafed and paltered until the want of a dinner drove me into honesty. Try to forget it, dear Nancy. Try to forgive me, my dearest!’

She was dry-eyed again, and his appeal seemed to have no power over her emotions.

‘You are forgetting,’ she said practically, ‘that I have lived on money to which I had no right, and that I—or you—can be forced to repay it.’

‘Repaid it must be, whether demanded or not. Where does Barmby live? Perhaps I could see him to-night.’

‘What means have you of keeping us all alive?’

‘Some of my work has been accepted here and there; but there’s something else I have in mind. I don’t ask you to become a poverty-stricken wife in the ordinary way. I can’t afford to take a house. I must put you, with the child, into as good lodgings as I can hope to pay for, and work on by myself, just seeing you as often as you will let me. Even if you were willing, it would be a mistake for us to live together. For one thing, I couldn’t work under such conditions; for another, it would make you a slave. Tell me: are you willing to undertake the care of the child, if nothing else is asked of you?’

Nancy gave him a disdainful smile, a smile like those of her girlhood.

‘I’m not quite so feeble a creature as you think me.’

‘You would rather have the child to yourself, than be living away from him?’

‘If you have made up your mind, why trouble to ask such questions?’

‘Because I have no wish to force burdens upon you. You said just now that you could see little prospect of freedom in such a life as I have to offer you. I thought you perhaps meant that the care of the child would—’

‘I meant nothing,’ Nancy broke in, with fretful impatience.

‘Where is he—our boy?’

‘At Dulwich. I told you that in my last letter.’

‘Yes—yes. I thought you might have changed.’

‘I couldn’t have found a better, kinder woman. Can you guess how many answers I had to the advertisement? Thirty-two.’

‘Of course five-and-twenty of them took it for granted you would pay so much a week and ask no questions. They would just not have starved the baby,—unless you had hinted to them that you were willing to pay a lump sum for a death-certificate, in which case the affair would have been more or less skilfully managed.’

‘Mary knew all about that. She came from Falmouth, and spent two days in visiting people. I knew I could rely on her judgment. There were only four or five people she cared to see at all, and of these only one that seemed trustworthy.’

‘To be sure. One out of two-and-thirty. A higher percentage than would apply to mankind at large, I dare say. By-the-bye, I was afraid you might have found a difficulty in registering the birth.’

‘No. I went to the office myself, the morning that I was leaving Falmouth, and the registrar evidently knew nothing about me. It isn’t such a small place that everybody living there is noticed and talked of.’

‘And Mary took the child straight to Dulwich?’

‘Two days before I came,—so as to have the house ready for me.

‘Perhaps it was unfortunate, Nancy, that you had so good a friend. But for that, I should have suffered more uneasiness about you.’

She answered with energy:

‘There is no husband in the world worth such a friend as Mary.’

At this Tarrant first smiled, then laughed. Nancy kept her lips rigid. It happened that he again saw her face in exact profile, and again it warmed the current of his blood.

‘Some day you shall think better of that.’

She paid no attention. Watching her, he asked:

‘What are you thinking of so earnestly?’

Her answer was delayed a little, but she said at length, with an absent manner:

‘Horace might lend me the money to pay back what I owe.’

‘Your brother?—If he can afford it, there would be less objection to that than to any other plan I can think of. But I must ask it myself; you shall beg no more favours. I will ask it in your presence.’

‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ Nancy replied drily. ‘If you think to please me by humiliating yourself, you are very much mistaken. And you mustn’t imagine that I put myself into your hands to be looked after as though I had no will of my own. With the past you have nothing to do,—with my past, at all events. Care for the future as you like.’

‘But I must see your guardians.’

‘No. I won’t have that.’

She stood up to emphasise her words.

‘I must. It’s the only way in which I can satisfy myself—’

‘Then I refuse to take a step,’ said Nancy. ‘Leave all that to me, and I will go to live where you please, and never grumble, however poor I am. Interfere, and I will go on living as now, on Samuel Barmby’s generosity.’

There was no mistaking her resolution. Tarrant hesitated, and bit his lip.

‘How long, then, before you act?’ he inquired abruptly.

‘When my new home is found, I am ready to go there.’

‘You will deal honestly with me? You will tell every one, and give up everything not strictly yours?’

‘I have done with lies,’ said Nancy.

‘Thank heaven, so have I!’

Part VI: A Virtue of Necessity

CHAPTER 1

Upon the final tempest in De Crespigny Park there followed, for Arthur Peachey, a calmer and happier season than he had ever known. To have acted with stern resolve is always a satisfaction, especially to the man conscious of weak good-nature, and condemned for the most part to yield. In his cheap lodging at Clapham, Peachey awoke each morning with a vague sense of joy, which became delight as soon as he had collected his senses. He was a free man. No snarl greeted him as he turned his head upon the pillow; he could lie and meditate, could rise quietly when the moment sounded, could go downstairs to a leisurely meal, cheered perhaps by a letter reporting that all was well with his dear little son. Simple, elementary pleasures, but how he savoured them after his years of sordid bondage!

It was the blessedness of divorce, without squalid publicity. It was the vast relief of widowerhood, without dreary memories of death and burial.

In releasing himself from such companionship, the man felt as though he had washed and become clean.

Innocent of scientific speculation, he had the misfortune about this time to read in paper or magazine something on the subject of heredity, the idle verbiage of some half-informed scribbler. It set him anxiously thinking whether his son would develop the vices of the mother’s mind, and from that day he read all the printed chatter regarding natural inheritance that he could lay his hands on. The benefit he derived from this course of study was neither more nor less than might have been expected; it supplied him with a new trouble, which sometimes kept him wakeful. He could only resolve that his boy should have the best education procurable for money, if he starved himself in providing it.

He had begun to live with the utmost economy, and for a twofold reason: the business of Messrs Ducker, Blunt & Co. threatened a decline, and, this apart, he desired to get out of it, to obtain an interest in some more honourable concern. For a long time it had been known to him that the disinfectants manufactured by his firm were far from trustworthy, and of late the complaints of purchasers had become frequent. With the manufacturing department he had nothing to do; he tried to think himself free from responsibility; for, in spite of amiable qualities, he was a man of business, and saw a great part of life through the commercial spectacles commonly worn now-a-days. Nevertheless conscience unsettled him. One day he heard his partners joking over the legislative omission by virtue of which they were able to adulterate their disinfectants to any extent without fear of penalty; their laughter grated upon him, and he got out of the way. If he could lay aside a few thousands of pounds, assuredly his connection with the affair should be terminated. So he lived, for his own part, on a pound a week, and informed Ada through his solicitor that she must be satisfied with a certain very moderate allowance.

Mrs. Peachey naturally laid herself out to give every one as much trouble as possible. Insulting post-cards showered upon her husband at his place of business. After a few weeks she discovered his lodging, and addressed the post-cards thither; but she made no attempt at personal molestation. The loss of her child gave her not the slightest concern, yet she determined to find out where the boy was living. She remembered that Peachey had relatives at Canterbury, and after a troublesome search succeeded in her purpose. An interview with her husband’s married sister proved so unsatisfactory to Ada, that she had recourse to her familiar weapons, rage, insult, and menace; with the result that she was forcibly removed, and made a scandal in the quiet street.

Then she consulted men of law, and found one who encouraged her to sue for restitution of conjugal rights. It came to nothing, however; for in the meantime she was growing tired of her solitary existence,—friends of course she had none,—and the spirit moved her to try a change of tactics.

She wrote a long, long letter, penitent, tear-bestained. ‘I have behaved outrageously to you, dearest Arthur; I must have been mad to say and do such things. The doctor tells me that my health has been in a very bad state for a long time, and I really don’t remember half that has happened. You were quite right when you told me that I should be better if I didn’t live such an idle life, and I have quite, quite made up my mind to be an industrious and a good woman. All yesterday I spent in needlework and crying. Oh, the tears that I have shed! My darling husband, what can I do to win your forgiveness? Do consider how lonely I am in this house. Beatrice has been horrid to me. If I said all I think about her, she wouldn’t like to hear it; but I am learning to control my tongue. She lives alone in a flat, and has men to spend every evening with her; it’s disgraceful! And there’s Fanny, who I am sure is leading an immoral life abroad. Of course I shall never speak to her again. You were quite right when you said my sisters were worthless.’—Peachey had never permitted himself any such remark.—‘I will have no one but you, my dear, good, sweet husband.’

So on, over several pages. Reading it, the husband stood aghast at this new revelation of female possibilities; at the end, he hurriedly threw it into the fire, fearing, and with good reason, that weakness in his own character to which the woman addressed herself.

Every day for a week there arrived a replica of this epistle, and at length he answered. It was the fatal concession. Though he wrote with almost savage severity, Ada replied in terms of exuberant gratitude. Oh, how delighted she was to see his dear handwriting once more! How it reminded her of happy days, when they loved each other so tenderly! Then came two strophes of a sentimental drawing-room song, and lastly, an impassioned appeal to be allowed to see her husband, were it only for five minutes.

Another week of such besieging, and the poor fellow’s foolish heart gave way. He would see the wretched woman, and tell her that, though never could he consent to live with her again, he had no malicious feeling, and was willing to be her friend at a distance. So, at six o’clock one evening, behold him tremulously approaching the house in De Crespigny Park,—tremulously, because he dreaded the assault upon his emotions to which he so recklessly exposed himself. He was admitted by a very young servant, in a very clean cap and apron. Silence possessed the dwelling; he did not venture to tread with natural step. He entered the drawing-room, and there, from amid a heap of household linen which required the needle, rose the penitent wife. Ostentatiously she drew from her finger a thimble, then advanced with head bent.

‘How kind of you, Arthur! How—how very—’

And she was dissolved in tears—so genuine, that they marked pale rillets across the bloom of her cheeks.

About a month after that the furniture was removed from De Crespigny Park to a much smaller house at Brixton, where Mr. and Mrs. Peachey took up their abode together. A medical man shortly called, and Ada, not without secret disgust, smilingly made known to her husband that she must now be very careful of her health.

On one point only the man had held to a rational resolve; he would not allow his little son to be brought back to London, away from the home where he was happy and thriving. Out of mere self-will Ada strove for a long time to overcome this decision; finding argument and artifice of no avail, she dropped the matter. Peachey owed this triumph largely to the firm commonsense of his sister, who plainly refused to let the little fellow quit her care for that of such a woman as he was unfortunate enough to call mother.

Christmas came, and with it an unanticipated call from Miss. Fanny French, who said she had lately recovered from a serious illness in Paris; the nature of her malady she did not specify; it had left her haggard and thin, but by no means deficient in vivacity. She was dressed with tawdry extravagance, wore a mass of false yellow hair, had her eyebrows dyed black,—piquant contrast,—and her cheeks and lips richly carmined. No veritable information as to her past and present could be gleaned from the mixture of French and English which she ceaselessly gabbled. She had come over for Christmas, that was all; could not dream of returning to live in wretched England. At Brussels and in Paris she had made hosts of friends, just the right sort of people.

Ada told her all the news. Of most interest was that which related to Nancy Lord. Only a month ago it had become known that Nancy was married, and the mother of a child.

‘The Barmbys found it out somehow,’ Ada narrated. ‘She was married to a man called Tarrant, some one we never heard of, on the very day of her father’s death, and, of course, before she knew anything about his will. Then, of course, it had to be kept dark, or she’d lose all her money. Her husband hadn’t a farthing. She supported him, and they say he lived most of the time in her house. He’s a regular scamp, a drinking, betting fellow. Well, it all came out, and the Barmbys turned her into the street at a moment’s notice—serve her right!’

Fanny shrieked with merriment.

‘And what is she doing?’

‘She went on her knees to Beatrice, and begged for a place at the shop, if it was only a few shillings a week. Nice come-down for Nancy Lord, wasn’t it? Of course Beatrice sent her off with a flea in her ear. I don’t know where she’s living, but I’ve heard that her husband has gone to America, and left her to shift for herself, now there’s nothing more to be got out of her.’

For supplementary details of this racy narrative, Fanny sought out Beatrice; but to her astonishment and annoyance Beatrice would tell nothing. The elder sister urged Fanny to give an account of herself, and used some very plain speech of the admonitory kind.

‘What has become of that jackanapes, Horace Lord?’ asked Fanny, after a contemptuous remark about ‘sermons.’

‘I don’t know. The question is, what’s going to become of you?’

Whereupon the girl grew vituperative in two languages, and made off. Her relatives saw no more of her for a long time.

To Mrs. Peachey was born a daughter. Naturally, the months preceding this event had been, for her husband, a renewal of martyrdom; his one supporting solace lay in the thought of the little lad at Canterbury. All the old troubles were revived; from morning to night the house rang with brawls between mistress and servants; in the paroxysms favoured by her physical condition, Ada behaved like a candidate for Bedlam, and more than once obliged her husband to seek temporary peace in lodgings. He left home at eight o’clock every morning, and returned as late as possible. The necessity of passing long evenings made him haunt places of entertainment, and he sometimes had recourse to drink,—he by nature the soberest of men,—in fear of what awaited him on his tardy appearance at Brixton. A month after Ada’s confinement he once more acted a sane part, and announced by letter that he would die rather than continue living with his wife. As it was fine autumn weather he went down to a seaside place, where his Canterbury relatives and the little boy joined him for a holiday of several weeks. Again Ada was to receive an allowance. She despatched a few very virulent post-cards, but presently grew quiet, and appeared to accept the situation.