for a little while her mind was full of fragments of speculation about this man. was he a married man? was he very much away from home? what did he earn? were there ever disputes about his expenses?...
she must ask isaac. for she was determined to go home and challenge her husband. she felt buoyed up by indignation and the consciousness of innocence....
and then she felt an odd little doubt whether her innocence was quite so manifest as she supposed?
that doubt grew to uncomfortable proportions.
for two years she had been meeting mr. brumley as confidently as though they had been invisible beings, and now she had to rack her brains for just what might be mistaken, what might be misconstrued. there was nothing, she told herself, nothing, it was all as open as the day, and still her mind groped about for some forgotten circumstance, something gone almost out of memory that would bear misinterpretation.... how should she begin? "isaac," she would say, "i am being followed about london." suppose he denied his complicity! how could he deny his complicity?
the cab ran in through the gates of her home and stopped at the door. snagsby came hurrying down the steps with a face of consternation. "sir isaac, my lady, has come home in a very sad state indeed."
beyond snagsby in the hall she came upon a lost-looking round-eyed florence.
"daddy's ill again," said florence.
"you run to the nursery," said lady harman.
"i thought i might help," said florence. "i don't want to play with the others."
"no, run away to the nursery."
"i want to see the ossygen let out," said florence petulantly to her mother's unsympathetic back. "i never see the ossygen let out. mum—my!..."
lady harman found her husband on the couch in his bedroom. he was propped up in a sitting position with every available cushion and pillow. his coat and waistcoat and collar had been taken off, and his shirt and vest torn open. the nearest doctor, almsworth, was in attendance, but oxygen had not arrived, and sir isaac with an expression of bitter malignity upon his face was fighting desperately for breath. if anything his malignity deepened at the sight of his wife. "damned climate," he gasped. "wouldn't have come back—except for your foolery."
it seemed to help him to say that. he took a deep inhalation, pressed his lips tightly together, and nodded at her to confirm his words.
"if he's fanciful," said almsworth. "if in any way your presence irritates him——"
"let her stay," said sir isaac. "it—pleases her...."
almsworth's colleague entered with the long-desired oxygen cylinder.
7
and now every other interest in life was dominated, and every other issue postponed by the immense urgencies of sir isaac's illness. it had entered upon a new phase. it was manifest that he could no longer live in england, that he must go to some warm and kindly climate. there and with due precautions and observances almsworth assured lady harman he might survive for many years—"an invalid, of course, but a capable one."
for some time the business of the international stores had been preparing itself for this withdrawal. sir isaac had been entrusting his managers with increased responsibility and making things ready for the flotation of a company that would take the whole network of enterprises off his hands. charterson was associated with him in this, and everything was sufficiently definite to be managed from any continental resort to which his doctors chose to send him. they chose to send him to santa margherita on the ligurian coast near rapallo and porto fino.
it was old bergener of marienbad who chose this place. sir isaac had wanted to go to marienbad, his first resort abroad; he had a lively and indeed an exaggerated memory of his kur there; his growing disposition to distrust had turned him against his london specialist, and he had caused lady harman to send gigantic telegrams of inquiry to old bergener before he would be content. but bergener would not have him at marienbad; it wasn't the place, it was the wrong time of year, there was the very thing for them at the regency hotel at santa margherita, an entire dépendance in a beautiful garden right on the sea, admirably furnished and adapted in every way to sir isaac's peculiar needs. there, declared doctor bergener, with a proper attendant, due precaution, occasional oxygen and no excitement he would live indefinitely, that is to say eight or ten years. and attracted by the eight or ten years, which was three more than the london specialist offered, sir isaac finally gave in and consented to be taken to santa margherita.
he was to go as soon as possible, and he went in a special train and with an immense elaboration of attendance and comforts. they took with them a young doctor their specialist at marienbad had recommended, a bright young bavarian with a perfectly square blond head, an incurable frock coat, the manners of the less kindly type of hotel-porter and luggage which apparently consisted entirely of apparatus, an arsenal of strange-shaped shining black cases. he joined them in london and went right through with them. from genoa at his request they obtained the services of a trained nurse, an amiable fluent-shaped woman who knew only italian and german. for reasons that he declined to give, but which apparently had something to do with the suffrage agitation, he would have nothing to do with an english trained nurse. they had also a stenographer and typist for sir isaac's correspondence, and lady harman had a secretary, a young lady with glasses named summersly satchell who obviously reserved opinions of a harshly intellectual kind and had previously been in the service of the late lady mary justin. she established unfriendly relations with the young doctor at an early date by attempting, he said, to learn german from him. then there was a maid for lady harman, an assistant maid, and a valet-attendant for sir isaac. the rest of the service in the dépendance was supplied by the hotel management.
it took some weeks to assemble this expedition and transport it to its place of exile. arrangements had to be made for closing the putney house and establishing the children with mrs. harman at black strand. there was an exceptional amount of packing up to do, for this time lady harman felt she was not coming back—it might be for years. they were going out to warmth and sunlight for the rest of sir isaac's life.
he was entering upon the last phase in the slow disorganization of his secretions and the progressive hardening of his arterial tissues that had become his essential history. his appearance had altered much in the last few months; he had become visibly smaller, his face in particular had become sharp and little-featured. it was more and more necessary for him to sit up in order to breathe with comfort, he slept sitting up; and his senses were affected, he complained of strange tastes in his food, quarrelled with the cook and had fits of sickness. sometimes, latterly, he had complained of strange sounds, like air whistling in water-pipes, he said, that had no existence outside his ears. moreover, he was steadily more irritable and more suspicious and less able to control himself when angry. a long-hidden vein of vile and abusive language, hidden, perhaps, since the days of mr. gambard's college at ealing, came to the surface....
for some days after his seizure lady harman was glad to find in the stress of his necessities an excuse for disregarding altogether the crisis in the hostels and the perplexing problem of her relations to mr. brumley. she wrote two brief notes to the latter gentleman breaking appointments and pleading pressure of business. then, at first during intervals of sleeplessness at night, and presently during the day, the danger and ugliness of her outlook began to trouble her. she was still, she perceived, being watched, but whether that was because her husband had failed to change whatever orders he had given, or because he was still keeping himself minutely informed of her movements, she could not tell. she was now constantly with him, and except for small spiteful outbreaks and occasional intervals of still and silent malignity, he tolerated and utilized her attentions. it was clear his jealousy of her rankled, a jealousy that made him even resentful at her health and ready to complain of any brightness of eye or vigour of movement. they had drifted far apart from the possibility of any real discussion of the hostels since that talk in the twilit study. to re-open that now or to complain of the shadowing pursuer who dogged her steps abroad would have been to precipitate mr. brumley's dismissal.
even at the cost of letting things drift at the hostels for a time she wished to avoid that question. she would not see him, but she would not shut the door upon him. so far as the detective was concerned she could avoid discussion by pretending to be unaware of his existence, and as for the hostels—the hostels each day were left until the morrow.
she had learnt many things since the days of her first rebellion, and she knew now that this matter of the man friend and nothing else in the world is the central issue in the emancipation of women. the difficulty of him is latent in every other restriction of which women complain. the complete emancipation of women will come with complete emancipation of humanity from jealousy—and no sooner. all other emancipations are shams until a woman may go about as freely with this man as with that, and nothing remains for emancipation when she can. in the innocence of her first revolt this question of friendship had seemed to lady harman the simplest, most reasonable of minor concessions, but that was simply because mr. brumley hadn't in those days been talking of love to her, nor she been peeping through that once locked door. now she perceived how entirely sir isaac was by his standards justified.
and after all that was recognized she remained indisposed to give up mr. brumley.
yet her sense of evil things happening in the hostels was a deepening distress. it troubled her so much that she took the disagreeable step of asking mrs. pembrose to meet her at the bloomsbury hostel and talk out the expulsions. she found that lady alertly defensive, entrenched behind expert knowledge and pretension generally. her little blue eyes seemed harder than ever, the metallic resonance in her voice more marked, the lisp stronger. "of course, lady harman, if you were to have some practical experience of control——" and "three times i have given these girls every opportunity—every opportunity."
"it seems so hard to drive these girls out," repeated lady harman. "they're such human creatures."
"you have to think of the ones who remain. you must—think of the institution as a whole."
"i wonder," said lady harman, peering down into profundities for a moment. below the great truth glimmered and vanished that institutions were made for man and not man for institutions.
"you see," she went on, rather to herself than to mrs. pembrose, "we shall be away now for a long time."
mrs. pembrose betrayed no excesses of grief.
"it's no good for me to interfere and then leave everything...."
"that way spells utter disorganization," said mrs. pembrose.
"but i wish something could be done to lessen the harshness—to save the pride—of such a girl as alice burnet. practically you tell her she isn't fit to associate with—the other girls."
"she's had her choice and warning after warning."
"i daresay she's—stiff. oh!—she's difficult. but—being expelled is bitter."
"i've not expelled her—technically."
"she thinks she's expelled...."
"you'd rather perhaps, lady harman, that i was expelled."
the dark lady lifted her eyes to the little bridling figure in front of her for a moment and dropped them again. she had had an unspeakable thought, that mrs. pembrose wasn't a gentlewoman, and that this sort of thing was a business for the gentle and for nobody else in the world. "i'm only anxious not to hurt anyone if i can help it," said lady harman.
she went on with her attempt to find some way of compromise with mrs. pembrose that should save the spirit of the new malcontents. she was much too concerned on account of the things that lay ahead of them to care for her own pride with mrs. pembrose. but that good lady had all the meagre inflexibilities of her class and at last lady harman ceased.
she came out into the great hall of the handsome staircase, ushered by mrs. pembrose as a guest is ushered by a host. she looked at the spacious proportion of the architecture and thought of the hopes and imaginations she had allowed to centre upon this place. it was to have been a glowing home of happy people, and over it all brooded the chill stillness of rules and regulations and methodical suppressions and tactful discouragement. it was an institution, it had the empty orderliness of an institution, mrs. pembrose had just called it an institution, and so susan burnet had prophesied it would become five years or more ago. it was a dream subjugated to reality.
so it seemed to lady harman must all dreams be subjugated to reality, and the tossing spring greenery of the square, the sunshine, the tumult of sparrows and the confused sound of distant traffic, framed as it was in the hard dark outline of the entrance door, was as near as the promise of joy could ever come to her. "caught and spoilt," that seemed to be the very essential of her life; just as it was of these hostels, all the hopes, the imaginings, the sweet large anticipations, the generosities, and stirring warm desires....
perhaps lady harman had been a little overworking with her preparations for exile. because as these unhappy thoughts passed through her mind she realized that she was likely to weep. it was extremely undesirable that mrs. pembrose should see her weeping.
but mrs. pembrose did see her weeping, saw her dark eyes swimming with uncontrollable tears, watched her walk past her and out, without a word or a gesture of farewell.
a kind of perplexity came upon the soul of mrs. pembrose. she watched the tall figure descend to her car and enter it and dispose itself gracefully and depart....
"hysterical," whispered mrs. pembrose at last and was greatly comforted.
"childish," said mrs. pembrose sipping further consolation for an unwonted spiritual discomfort.
"besides," said mrs. pembrose, "what else can one do?"
