for three days mr. brumley was so staggered by these things that it did not occur to him that it was quite possible for him to see lady harman for himself and find out just how things stood. he remained in london with an imagination dazed. and as it was the christmas season and as george edmund in a rather expectant holiday state had now come up from margate, mr. brumley went in succession to the hippodrome, to peter pan and to an exhibition at olympia, assisted at an afternoon display of the kinemacolor at la scala theatre, visited hamley's and lunched george edmund once at the criterion and twice at the climax club, while thinking of nothing in all the world but the incalculable strangeness of women. george edmund thought him a very passive leadable parent indeed, less querulous about money matters and altogether much improved. the glitter and colour of these various entertainments reflected themselves upon the surface of that deep flood of meditation, hook-armed wooden-legged pirates, intelligent elephants, ingenious but extremely expensive toys, flickering processions, comic turns, snatches of popular music and george edmund's way of eating an orange, pictured themselves on his mind confusedly without in any way deflecting its course. then on the fourth day he roused himself, gave george edmund ten shillings to get himself a cutlet at the café royal and do the cinematographs round and about the west end, and so released reached aleham in time for a temperate lunch. he chartered the aleham car to take him to black strand and arrived there about a quarter past three, in a great effort to feel himself a matter-of-course visitor.
it ought to be possible to record that mr. brumley's mind was full of the intensest sense of lady harman during that journey and of nothing else, but as a matter of fact his mind was now curiously detached and reflective, the tensions and expectation of the past month and the astonishment of the last few days had worked themselves out and left him as it were the passive instrument of the purpose of his more impassioned moods. this distressed lover approached black strand in a condition of philosophical lassitude.
the road from aleham to black strand is a picturesque old english road, needlessly winding and badly graded, wriggling across a healthy wilderness with occasional pine-woods. something in that familiar landscape—for his life had run through it since first he and euphemia on a tandem bicycle and altogether very young had sought their ideal home in the south of england—set his mind swinging and generalizing. how freshly youthful he and euphemia had been when first he came along that road, how crude, how full of happy expectations of success; it had been as bright and it was now as completely gone as the sunsets they had seen together.
how great a thing life is! how much greater than any single romance, or any individual affection! since those days he had grown, he had succeeded, he had suffered in a reasonable way of course, still he could recall with a kind of satisfaction tears and deep week-long moods of hopeless melancholy—and he had changed. and now dominating this landscape, filling him with new emotions and desires and perplexing intimations of ignorance and limitations he had never suspected in his youth, was this second figure of a woman. she was different from euphemia. with euphemia everything had been so simple and easy; until that slight fading, that fatigue of entire success and satisfaction, of the concluding years. he and euphemia had always kept it up that they had no thought in the world except for one another.... yet if that had been true, why hadn't he died when she did. he hadn't died—with remarkable elasticity. clearly in his case there had been these unexplored, unsuspected hinterlands of possibility towards which lady harman seemed now to be directing him. it came to him that afternoon as an entirely fresh thought that there might also have been something in euphemia beyond their simple, so charmingly treated relationship. he began to recall moments when euphemia had said perplexing little things, had looked at him with an expression that was unexpected, had been—difficult....
i write of mr. brumley to tell you things about him and not to explain him. it may be that the appetite for thorough good talks with people grows upon one, but at any rate it did occur to mr. brumley on his way to talk to lady harman, it occurred to him as a thing distressingly irrevocable that he could now never have a thorough good talk with euphemia about certain neglected things between them. it would have helped him so much....
his eyes rested as he thought of these things upon the familiar purple hill crests, patched that afternoon with the lingering traces of a recent snowstorm, the heather slopes, the dark mysterious woods, the patches of vivid green where a damp and marshy meadow or so broke the moorland surface. to-day in spite of the sun there was a bright blue-white line of frost to the northward of every hedge and bank, the trees were dripping down the white edgings of the morning into the pine-needle mud at their feet; he had seen it so like this before; years hence he might see it all like this again; all this great breezy countryside had taken upon itself a quality of endurance, as though it would still be real and essential in his mind when lady harman had altogether passed again. it would be real when he himself had passed away, and in other costumes and other vehicles fresh euphemias and new crude george brumleys would come along, feeling in the ultimate bright new wisdom of youth that it was all for them—a subservient scenery, when really it was entirely indifferent in its careless permanence to all their hopes and fancies....
6
mr. brumley's thoughts on the permanence of landscape and the mutability of human affairs were more than a little dashed when he came within sight of black strand and perceived that once cosily beautiful little home clipped and extended, its shrubbery wrecked and the old barn now pierced with windows and adorned—for its new chimneys were not working very well—by several efficient novelties in chimney cowls. up the slopes behind sir isaac had extended his boundaries, and had been felling trees and levelling a couple of tennis courts for next summer.
something was being done to the porch, and the jasmine had been cleared away altogether. mr. brumley could not quite understand what was in progress; sir isaac he learnt afterwards had found a wonderful bargain in a real genuine georgian portal of great dignity and simplicity in aleham, and he was going to improve black strand by transferring it thither—with the utmost precaution and every piece numbered—from its original situation. mr. brumley stood among the preparatory débris of this and rang a quietly resolute electric bell, which was answered no longer by mrs. rabbit but by the ample presence of snagsby.
snagsby in that doorway had something of the preposterous effect of a very large face beneath a very small hat. he had to mr. brumley's eyes a restored look, as though his self-confidence had been thoroughly done up since their last encounter. bygones were bygones. mr. brumley was admitted as one is admitted to any normal home. he was shown into the little study-drawing-room with the stepped floor, which had been so largely the scene of his life with euphemia, and he was left there for the better part of a quarter of an hour before his hostess appeared.
the room had been changed very little. euphemia's solitary rose had gone, and instead there were several bowls of beaten silver scattered about, each filled with great chrysanthemums from london. sir isaac's jackdaw acquisitiveness had also overcrowded the corner beyond the fireplace with a very fine and genuine queen anne cabinet; there were a novel by elizabeth robins and two or three feminist and socialist works lying on the table which would certainly not have been visible, though they might have been in the house, during the brumley régime. otherwise things were very much as they always had been.
a room like this, thought mr. brumley among much other mental driftage, is like a heart,—so long as it exists it must be furnished and tenanted. no matter what has been, however bright and sweet and tender, the spaces still cry aloud to be filled again. the very essence of life is its insatiability. how complete all this had seemed in the moment when first he and euphemia had arranged it. and indeed how complete life had seemed altogether at seven-and-twenty. every year since then he had been learning—or at any rate unlearning. until at last he was beginning to realize he had still everything to learn....
the door opened and the tall dark figure of lady harman stood for a moment in the doorway before she stepped down into the room.
she had always the same effect upon him, the effect of being suddenly remembered. when he was away from her he was always sure that she was a beautiful woman, and when he saw her again he was always astonished to see how little he had borne her beauty in mind. for a moment they regarded one another silently. then she closed the door behind her and came towards him.
all mr. brumley's philosophizing had vanished at the sight of her. his spirit was reborn within him. he thought of her and of his effect upon her, vividly, and of nothing else in the world.
she was paler he thought beneath her dusky hair, a little thinner and graver....
there was something in her manner as she advanced towards him that told him he mattered to her, that his coming there was something that moved her imagination as well as his own. with an almost impulsive movement she held out both her hands to him, and with an inspiration as sudden he took them and kissed them. when he had done so he was ashamed of his temerity; he looked up to meet in her dark eyes the scared shyness of a fallow deer. she suddenly remembered to withdraw her hands, and it became manifest to both of them that the incident must never have happened. she went to the window, stood almost awkwardly for a moment looking out of it, then turned. she put her hands on the back of the chair and stood holding it.
"i knew you would come to see me," she said.
"i've been very anxious about you," he said, and on that their minds rested through a little silence.
"you see," he explained, "i didn't know what was happening to you. or what you were doing."
"after asking your advice," she said.
"exactly."
"i don't know why i broke that window. except i think that i wanted to get away."
"but why didn't you come to me?"
"i didn't know where you were. and besides—i didn't somehow want to come to you."
"but wasn't it wretched in prison? wasn't it miserably cold? i used to think of you of nights in some wretched ill-aired cell.... you...."
"it was cold," she admitted. "but it was very good for me. it was quiet. the first few days seemed endless; then they began to go by quickly. quite quickly at last. and i came to think. in the day there was a little stool where one sat. i used to sit on that and brood and try to think things out—all sorts of things i've never had the chance to think about before."
"yes," said mr. brumley.
"all this," she said.
"and it has brought you back here!" he said, with something of the tone of one who has a right to enquire, with some flavour too of reproach.
"you see," she said after a little pause, "during that time it was possible to come to understandings. neither i nor my husband had understood the other. in that interval it was possible—to explain.
"yes. you see, mr. brumley, we—we both misunderstood. it was just because of that and because i had no one who seemed able to advise me that i turned to you. a novelist always seems so wise in these things. he seems to know so many lives. one can talk to you as one can scarcely talk to anyone; you are a sort of doctor—in these matters. and it was necessary—that my husband should realize that i had grown up and that i should have time to think just how one's duty and one's—freedom have to be fitted together.... and my husband is ill. he has been ill, rather short of breath—the doctor thinks it is asthma—for some time, and all the agitation of this business has upset him and made him worse. he is upstairs now—asleep. of course if i had thought i should make him ill i could never have done any of this. but it's done now and here i am, mr. brumley, back in my place. with all sorts of things changed. put right...."
"i see," said mr. brumley stupidly.
her speech was like the falling of an opaque curtain upon some romantic spectacle. she stood there, almost defensively behind her chair as she made it. there was a quality of premeditation in her words, yet something in her voice and bearing made him feel that she knew just how it covered up and extinguished his dreams and impulses. he heard her out and then suddenly his spirit rebelled against her decision. "no!" he cried.
she waited for him to go on.
"you see," he said, "i thought that it was just that you wanted to get away——that this life was intolerable——that you were——forgive me if i seem to be going beyond—going beyond what i ought to be thinking about you. only, why should i pretend? i care, i care for you tremendously. and it seemed to me that you didn't love your husband, that you were enslaved and miserable. i would have done anything to help you—anything in the world, lady harman. i know—it may sound ridiculous—there have been times when i would have faced death to feel you were happy and free. i thought all that, i felt all that,—and then—then you come back here. you seem not to have minded. as though i had misunderstood...."
he paused and his face was alive with an unwonted sincerity. his self-consciousness had for a moment fallen from him.
"i know," she said, "it was like that. i knew you cared. that is why i have so wanted to talk to you. it looked like that...."
she pressed her lips together in that old familiar hunt for words and phrases.
"i didn't understand, mr. brumley, all there was in my husband or all there was in myself. i just saw his hardness and his—his hardness in business. it's become so different now. you see, i forgot he has bad health. he's ill; i suppose he was getting ill then. instead of explaining himself—he was—excited and—unwise. and now——"
"now i suppose he has—explained," said mr. brumley slowly and with infinite distaste. "lady harman, what has he explained?"
"it isn't so much that he has explained, mr. brumley," said lady harman, "as that things have explained themselves."
"but how, lady harman? how?"
"i mean about my being a mere girl, almost a child when i married him. naturally he wanted to take charge of everything and leave nothing to me. and quite as naturally he didn't notice that now i am a woman, grown up altogether. and it's been necessary to do things. and naturally, mr. brumley, they shocked and upset him. but he sees now so clearly, he wrote to me, such a fair letter—an unusual letter—quite different from when he talks—it surprised me, telling me he wanted me to feel free, that he meant to make me—to arrange things that is, so that i should feel free and more able to go about as i pleased. it was a generous letter, mr. brumley. generous about all sorts of affairs that there had been between us. he said things, quite kind things, not like the things he has ever said before——"
she stopped short and then began again.
"you know, mr. brumley, it's so hard to tell things without telling other things that somehow are difficult to tell. yet if i don't tell you them, you won't know them and then you won't be able to understand in the least how things are with us."
her eyes appealed to him.
"tell me," he said, "whatever you think fit."
"when one has been afraid of anyone and felt they were ever so much stronger and cruel and hard than one is and one suddenly finds they aren't. it alters everything."
he nodded, watching her.
her voice fell nearly to a whisper. "mr. brumley," she said, "when i came back to him—you know he was in bed here—instead of scolding me—he cried. he cried like a vexed child. he put his face into the pillow—just misery.... i'd never seen him cry—at least only once—long ago...."
mr. brumley looked at her flushed and tender face and it seemed to him that indeed he could die for her quite easily.
"i saw how hard i had been," she said. "in prison i'd thought of that, i'd thought women mustn't be hard, whatever happens to them. and when i saw him like that i knew at once how true that was.... he begged me to be a good wife to him. no!—he just said, 'be a wife to me,' not even a good wife—and then he cried...."
for a moment or so mr. brumley didn't respond. "i see," he said at last. "yes."
"and there were the children—such helpless little things. in the prison i worried about them. i thought of things for them. i've come to feel—they are left too much to nurses and strangers.... and then you see he has agreed to nearly everything i had wanted. it wasn't only the personal things—i was anxious about those silly girls—the strikers. i didn't want them to be badly treated. it distressed me to think of them. i don't think you know how it distressed me. and he—he gave way upon all that. he says i may talk to him about the business, about the way we do our business—the kindness of it i mean. and this is why i am back here. where else could i be?"
"no," said mr. brumley still with the utmost reluctance. "i see. only——"
he paused downcast and she waited for him to speak.
"only it isn't what i expected, lady harman. i didn't think that matters could be settled by such arrangements. it's sane, i know, it's comfortable and kindly. but i thought—oh! i thought of different things, quite different things from all this. i thought of you who are so beautiful caught in a loveless passionless world. i thought of the things there might be for you, the beautiful and wonderful things of which you are deprived.... never mind what i thought! never mind! you've made your choice. but i thought that you didn't love, that you couldn't love—this man. it seemed to me that you felt too—that to live as you are doing—with him—was a profanity. something—i'd give everything i have, everything i am, to save you from. because—because i care.... i misunderstood you. i suppose you can—do what you are doing."
he jumped to his feet as he spoke and walked three paces away and turned to utter his last sentences. she too stood up.
"mr. brumley," she said weakly, "i don't understand. what do you mean? i have to do what i am doing. he—he is my husband."
he made a gesture of impatience. "do you understand nothing of love?" he cried.
she pressed her lips together and remained still and silent, dark against the casement window.
there came a sound of tapping from the room above. three taps and again three taps.
lady harman made a little gesture as though she would put this sound aside.
"love," she said at last. "it comes to some people. it happens. it happens to young people.... but when one is married——"
her voice fell almost to a whisper. "one must not think of it," she said. "one must think of one's husband and one's duty. life cannot begin again, mr. brumley."
the taps were repeated, a little more urgently.
"that is my husband," she said.
she hesitated through a little pause. "mr. brumley," she said, "i want friendship so badly, i want some one to be my friend. i don't want to think of things—disturbing things—things i have lost—things that are spoilt. that—that which you spoke of; what has it to do with me?"
she interrupted him as he was about to speak.
"be my friend. don't talk to me of impossible things. love! mr. brumley, what has a married woman to do with love? i never think of it. i never read of it. i want to do my duty. i want to do my duty by him and by my children and by all the people i am bound to. i want to help people, weak people, people who suffer. i want to help him to help them. i want to stop being an idle, useless, spending woman...."
she made a little gesture of appeal with her hands.
"oh!" he sighed, and then, "you know if i can help you——rather than distress you——"
her manner changed. it became confidential and urgent.
"mr. brumley," she said, "i must go up to my husband. he will be impatient. and when i tell him you are here he will want to see you.... you will come up and see him?"
mr. brumley sought to convey the struggle within him by his pose.
"i will do what you wish, lady harman," he said, with an almost theatrical sigh.
he closed the door after her and was alone in his former study once more. he walked slowly to his old writing-desk and sat down in his familiar seat. presently he heard her footfalls across the room above. mr. brumley's mind under the stress of the unfamiliar and the unexpected was now lapsing rapidly towards the theatrical. "my god!" said mr. brumley.
he addressed that friendly memorable room in tones that mingled amazement and wrong. "he is her husband!" he said, and then: "the power of words!" ...
