CHAPTER XXV

NATALY IN ACTION

A ticket of herald newspapers told the world of Victor's returning to his

London. Pretty Mrs. Blathenoy was Nataly's first afternoon visitor, and

was graciously received; no sign of inquiry for the cause of the lady's

alacrity to greet her being shown. Colney Durance came in, bringing the

rumour of an Australian cantatrice to kindle Europe; Mr. Peridon, a

seeker of tidings from the city of Bourges; Miss Priscilla Graves,

reporting of Skepsey, in a holiday Sunday tone, that his alcoholic

partner might at any moment release him; Mr. Septimus Barmby, with a

hanged heavy look, suggestive of a wharfside crane swinging the ponderous

thing he had to say. 'I have seen Miss Radnor.'

'She was well?' the mother asked, and the grand basso pitched forth an

affirmative.

'Dear sweet girl she is!' Mrs. Blathenoy exclaimed to Colney.

He bowed. 'Very sweet. And can let fly on you, like a haggis, for a

scratch.'

She laughed, glad of an escape from the conversational formalities

imposed on her by this Mrs. Victor Radnor's mighty manner. 'But what girl

worth anything! . . .

We all can do that, I hope, for a scratch!'

Mr. Barmby's Profession dissented.

Mr. Catkin appeared; ten minutes after his Peridon. He had met Victor

near the Exchange, and had left him humming the non fu sogno of ERNANI.

'Ah, when Victor takes to Verdi, it's a flat City, and wants a burst of

drum and brass,' Colney said; and he hummed a few bars of the march in

Attila, and shrugged. He and Victor had once admired that blatancy.

Mr. Pempton appeared, according to anticipation. He sat himself beside

Priscilla. Entered Mrs. John Cormyn, voluminous; Mrs. Peter Yatt,

effervescent; Nataly's own people were about her and she felt at home.

Mrs. Blathenoy pushed a small thorn into it, by speaking of Captain

Fenellan, and aside, as if sharing him with her. Nataly heard that

Dartrey had been the guest of these Blathenoys. Even Dartrey was but a

man!

Rather lower under her voice, the vain little creature asked: 'You knew

her?'

'Her?'

The cool counter-interrogation was disregarded. 'So sad! In the desert! a

cup of pure water worth more than barrow-loads of gold! Poor woman!'

'Who?'

'His wife.'

'Wife!'

'They were married?'

Nataly could have cried: Snake! Her play at brevity had certainly been

foiled. She nodded gravely. A load of dusky wonders and speculations

pressed at her bosom. She disdained to question the mouth which had

bitten her.

Mrs. Blathenoy, resolving, that despite the jealousy she excited, she

would have her friend in Captain Fenellan, whom she liked--liked, she was

sure, quite as innocently as any other woman of his acquaintance did,

departed and she hugged her innocence defiantly, with the mournful pride

which will sometimes act as a solvent.

A remark or two passed among the company upon her pretty face.

Nataly murmured to Colney: 'Is there anything of Dartrey's wife?'

'Dead,' he answered.

'When?'

'Months back. I had it from Simeon. You didn't hear?'

She shook her head. Her ears buzzed. If he had it from Simeon Fenellan,

Victor must have known it.

Her duties of hostess were conducted with the official smile.

As soon as she stood alone, she dropped on a chair, like one who has

taken a shot in the heart, and that hideous tumult of wild cries at her

ears blankly ceased. Dartrey, Victor, Nesta, were shifting figures of the

might-have-been for whom a wretched erring woman, washed clean of her

guilt by death, in a far land, had gone to her end: vainly gone: and now

another was here, a figure of wood, in man's shape, conjured up by one of

the three, to divide the two others; likely to be fatal to her or to

them: to her, she hoped, if the choice was to be: and beneath the leaden

hope, her heart set to a rapid beating, a fainter, a chill at the core.

She snatched for breath. She shut her eyes, and with open lips, lay

waiting; prepared to thank the kindness about to hurry her hence, out of

the seas of pain, without pain.

Then came sighs. The sad old servant in her bosom was resuming his

labours.

But she had been near it--very near it? A gush of pity for Victor,

overwhelmed her hardness of mind.

Unreflectingly, she tried her feet to support her, and tottered to the

door, touched along to the stairs, and descended them, thinking strangely

upon such a sudden weakness of body, when she would no longer have

thought herself the weak woman. Her aim was to reach the library. She sat

on the stairs midway, pondering over the length of her journey: and now

her head was clearer; for she was travelling to get Railway-guides, and

might have had them from the hands of a footman, and imagined that she

had considered it prudent to hide her investigation of those books:

proofs of an understanding fallen backward to the state of infant and

having to begin our drear ascent again.

A slam of the kitchen stair-door restored her. She betrayed no infirmity

of footing as she walked past Arlington in the hall; and she was alive to

the voice of Skepsey presently on the door-steps. Arlington brought her a

note.

Victor had written: 'My love, I dine with Blathenoy in the City, at the

Walworth. Business. Skepsey for clothes. Eight of us. Formal. A thousand

embraces. Late.'

Skepsey was ushered in. His wife had expired at noon, he said; and he

postured decorously the grief he could not feel, knowing that a lady

would expect it of him. His wife had fallen down stone steps; she died in

hospital. He wished to say, she was no loss to the country; but he was

advised within of the prudence of abstaining from comment and trusting to

his posture, and he squeezed a drop of conventional sensibility out of

it, and felt improved.

Nataly sent a line to Victor: 'Dearest, I go to bed early, am tired. Dine

well. Come to me in the morning.'

She reproached herself for coldness to poor Skepsey, when he had gone.

The prospect of her being alone until the morning had been so absorbing a

relief.

She found a relief also in work at the book of the trains. A walk to the

telegraph-station strengthened her. Especially after despatching a

telegram to Mr. Dudley Sowerby at Cronidge, and one to Nesta at

Moorsedge, did she become stoutly nerved. The former was requested to

meet her at Penhurst station at noon. Nesta was to be at the station for

the Wells at three o'clock.

From the time of the flying of these telegrams, up to the tap of Victor's

knuckle on her bed-room door next morning, she was not more reflectively

conscious than a packet travelling to its destination by pneumatic tube.

Nor was she acutely impressionable to the features and the voice she

loved.

'You know of Skepsey?' she said.

'Ah, poor Skepsey!' Victor frowned and heaved.

'One of us ought to stand beside him at the funeral.'

'Colney or Fenellan?'

'I will ask Mr. Durance.'

'Do, my darling.'

'Victor, you did not tell me of Dartrey's wife.'

'There again! They all get released! Yes, Dartrey! Dartrey has his luck

too.'

She closed her eyes, with the desire to be asleep.

'You should have told me, dear.'

'Well, my love! Well--poor Dartrey! I fancy I hadn't a confirmation of

the news. I remember a horrible fit of envy on hearing the hint: not much

more than a hint: serious illness, was it?--or expected event. Hardly

worth while to trouble my dear soul, till certain. Anything about wives,

forces me to think of myself--my better self!'

'I had to hear of it first from Mrs. Blathenoy.'

'You've heard of duels in dark rooms:--that was the case between

Blathenoy and me last night for an hour.'

She feigned somnolent fatigue over her feverish weariness of heart. He

kissed her on the forehead.

Her spell-bound intention to speak of Dudley Sowerby to him, was broken

by the sounding of the hall-door, thirty minutes later. She had lain in a

trance.

Life surged to her with the thought, that she could decide and take her

step. Many were the years back since she had taken a step; less

independently then than now; unregretted, if fatal. Her brain was heated

for the larger view of things and the swifter summing of them. It could

put the man at a remove from her and say, that she had lived with him and

suffered intensely. It gathered him to her breast rejoicing in their

union: the sharper the scourge, the keener the exultation. But she had

one reproach to deafen and beat down. This did not come on her from the

world: she and the world were too much foot to foot on the antagonist's

line, for her to listen humbly. It came of her quick summary survey of

him, which was unnoticed by the woman's present fiery mind as being new

or strange in any way: simply it was a fact she now read; and it directed

her to reproach herself for an abasement beneath his leadership, a blind

subserviency and surrender of her faculties to his greater powers, such

as no soul of a breathing body should yield to man: not to the highest,

not to the Titan, not to the most Godlike of men. Under cloak, they

demand it. They demand their bane.

And Victor! . . . She had seen into him.

The reproach on her was, that she, in her worship, had been slave, not

helper. Scarcely was she irreproachable in the character of slave. If it

had been utter slave! she phrased the words, for a further reproach. She

remembered having at times murmured, dissented. And it would have been a

desperate proud thought to comfort a slave, that never once had she known

even a secret opposition to the will of her lord.

But she had: she recalled instances. Up they rose; up rose everything her

mind ranged over, subsiding immediately when the service was done. She

had not conceived her beloved to be infallible, surest of guides in all

earthly-matters. Her intellect had sometimes protested.

What, then, had moved her to swamp it?

Her heart answered. And that heart also was arraigned: and the heart's

fleshly habitation acting on it besides: so flagellant of herself was

she: covertly, however, and as the chaste among women can consent to let

our animal face them. Not grossly, still perceptibly to her penetrative

hard eye on herself, she saw the senses of the woman under a charm. She

saw, and swam whirling with a pang of revolt from her personal being and

this mortal kind.

Her rational intelligence righted her speedily. She could say in truth,

by proof, she loved the man: nature's love, heart's love, soul's love.

She had given him her life.

It was a happy cross-current recollection, that the very beginning and

spring of this wild cast of her life, issued from something he said and

did (merest of airy gestures) to signify the blessing of life--how good

and fair it is. A drooping mood in her had been struck; he had a look

like the winged lyric up in blue heavens: he raised the head of the young

flower from its contemplation of grave-mould. That was when he had much

to bear: Mrs. Burman present: and when the stranger in their household

had begun to pity him and have a dread of her feelings. The lucent

splendour of his eyes was memorable, a light above the rolling oceans of

Time.

She had given him her life, little aid. She might have closely

counselled, wound in and out with his ideas. Sensible of capacity, she

confessed to the having been morally subdued, physically as well; swept

onward; and she was arrested now by an accident, like a waif of the

river-floods by the dip of a branch. Time that it should be! But was not

Mr. Durance, inveighing against the favoured system for the education of

women, right when he declared them to be unfitted to speak an opinion on

any matter external to the household or in a crisis of the household? She

had not agreed with him: he presented stinging sentences, which irritated

more than they enlightened. Now it seemed to her, that the model women of

men make pleasant slaves, not true mates: they lack the worldly training

to know themselves or take a grasp of circumstances.

There is an exotic fostering of the senses for women, not the

strengthening breath of vital common air. If good fortune is with them,

all may go well: the stake of their fates is upon the perpetual smooth

flow of good fortune. She had never joined to the cry of the women. Few

among them were having it in the breast as loudly.

Hard on herself, too, she perceived how the social rebel had reduced her

mind to propitiate a simulacrum, reflected from out, of an enthroned

Society within it, by an advocacy of the existing laws and rules and

habits. Eminently servile is the tolerated lawbreaker: none so

conservative. Not until we are driven back upon an unviolated Nature, do

we call to the intellect to think radically: and then we begin to think

of our fellows.

Or when we have set ourselves in motion direct for the doing of the right

thing: have quitted the carriage at the station, and secured the ticket,

and entered the train, counting the passage of time for a simple rapid

hour before we have eased heart in doing justice to ourself and to

another; then likewise the mind is lighted for radiation. That doing of

the right thing, after a term of paralysis, cowardice--any evil name--is

one of the mighty reliefs, equal to happiness, of longer duration.

Nataly had it. But her mind was actually radiating, and the comfort to

her heart evoked the image of Dartrey Fenellan. She saw a possible reason

for her bluntness to the coming scene with Dudley.

At once she said, No! and closed the curtain; knowing what was behind,

counting it nought. She repeated almost honestly her positive negative.

How we are mixed of the many elements! she thought, as an observer; and

self-justifyingly thought on, and with truth, that duty urged her upon

this journey; and proudly thought, that she had not a shock of the

painful great organ in her breast at the prospect at the end, or any

apprehension of its failure to carry her through.

Yet the need of peace or some solace needed to prepare her for her

interview turned her imagination burningly on Dartrey. She would not

allow herself to meditate over hopes and schemes:--Nesta free: Dartrey

free. She vowed to her soul sacredly--and she was one of those in whom

the Divinity lives, that they may do so--not to speak a word for the

influencing of Dudley save the one fact. Consequently, for a personal

indulgence, she mused; she caressed maternally the object of her musing;

of necessity, she excluded Nesta; but in tenderness she gave Dartrey a

fair one to love him.

The scene was waved away. That one so loving him, partly worthy of him,

ready to traverse the world now beside him--who could it be other than

she who knew and prized his worth? Foolish! It is one of the hatefuller

scourges upon women whenever, a little shaken themselves, they muse upon

some man's image, that they cannot put in motion the least bit of drama

without letting feminine self play a part; generally to develop into a

principal part. . . The apology makes it a melancholy part.

Dartrey's temper of the caged lion dominated by his tamer, served as

keynote for any amount of saddest colouring. He controlled the brute: but

he held the contempt of danger, the love of strife, the passion for

adventure; he had crossed the desert of human anguish. He of all men

required a devoted mate, merited her. Of all men living, he was the

hardest to match with a woman--with a woman deserving him.

The train had quitted London. Now for the country, now for free

breathing! She who two days back had come from Alps, delighted in the

look on flat green fields. It was under the hallucination of her saying

in flight adieu to them, and to England; and, that somewhere hidden, to

be found in Asia, Africa, America, was the man whose ideal of life was

higher than enjoyment. His caged brute of a temper offered opportunities

for delicious petting; the sweetest a woman can bestow: it lifts her out

of timidity into an adoration still palpitatingly fearful. Ah, but

familiarity, knowledge, confirmed assurance of his character, lift her to

another stage, above the pleasures. May she not prove to him how really

matched with him she is, to disdain the pleasures, cheerfully accept the

burdens, meet death, if need be; readily face it as the quietly grey

to-morrow: at least, show herself to her hero for a woman--the incredible

being to most men--who treads the terrors as well as the pleasures of

humanity beneath her feet, and may therefore have some pride in her

stature. Ay, but only to feel the pride of standing not so shamefully

below his level beside him.

Woods were flying past the carriage-windows. Her solitary companion was

of the class of the admiring gentlemen. Presently he spoke. She answered.

He spoke again. Her mouth smiled, and her accompanying look of abstract

benevolence arrested the tentative allurement to conversation.

New ideas were set revolving in her. Dartrey and Victor grew to a

likeness; they became hazily one man, and the mingled phantom

complimented her on her preserving a good share of the beauty of her

youth. The face perhaps: the figure rather too well suits the years! she

replied. To reassure her, this Dartrey-Victor drew her close and kissed

her; and she was confused and passed into the breast of Mrs. Burman

expecting an operation at the hands of the surgeons. The train had

stopped. 'Penhurst?' she said.

'Penhurst is the next station,' said the gentleman. Here was a theme for

him! The stately mansion, the noble grounds, and Sidney! He discoursed of

them.

The handsome lady appeared interested. She was interested also by his

description of a neighbouring village, likely one hundred years hence to

be a place of pilgrimage for Americans and for Australians. Age, he said,

improves true beauty; and his eyelids indicated a levelling to perform

the soft intentness. Mechanically, a ball rose in her throat; the remark

was illuminated by a saying of Colney's, with regard to his countrymen at

the play of courtship. No laughter came. The gentleman talked on.

All fancies and internal communications left her. Slowness of motion

brought her to the plain piece of work she had to do, on a colourless

earth, that seemed foggy; but one could see one's way. Resolution is a

form of light, our native light in this dubious world.

Dudley Sowerby opened her carriage-door. They greeted.

'You have seen Nesta?' she said.

'Not for two days. You have not heard? The Miss Duvidneys have gone to

Brighton.'

'They are rather in advance of the Season.'

She thanked him for meeting her. He was grateful for the summons.

Informing the mother of his betrothed, that he had ridden over from

Cronidge, he speculated on the place to select for her luncheon, and he

spoke of his horse being led up and down outside the station. Nataly

inquired for the hour of the next train to London. He called to one of

the porters, obtained and imparted the time; evidently now, as shown by

an unevenness of his lifted brows, expecting news of some little weight.

'Your husband is quite well?' he said, in affection for the name of

husband.

'Mr. Radnor is well; I have to speak to you; I have more than time.'

'You will lunch at the inn?'

'I shall not eat. We will walk.'

They crossed the road and passed under trees.

'My mother was to have called on the Miss Duvidneys. They left hurriedly;

I think it was unanticipated by Nesta. I venture . . . you pardon the

liberty . . . she allows me to entertain hopes. Mr. Radnor, I am hardly

too bold in thinking . . . I trust, in appealing to you . . . at least I

can promise!

'Mr. Sowerby, you have done my daughter the honour to ask her hand in

marriage.'

He said: 'I have,' and had much to say besides, but deferred: a blow was

visible. The father had been more encouraging to him than the mother.

'You have not known of any circumstance that might cause hesitation in

asking?'

'Miss Radnor?'

'My daughter:--you have to think of your family.'

'Indeed, Mrs. Radnor, I was coming to London tomorrow, with the consent

of my family.'

'You address me as Mrs. Radnor. I have not the legal right to the name.'

'Not legal!' said he, with a catch at the word.

He spun round in her sight, though his demeanour was manfully rigid.

'Have I understood, madam . . . ?'

'You would not request me to repeat it. Is that your horse the man is

leading?'

'My horse: it must be my horse.'

'Mount and ride back. Leave me: I shall not eat. Reflect, by yourself.

You are in a position of one who is not allowed to decide by his

feelings. Mr. Radnor you know where to find.'

'But surely, some food? I cannot have misapprehended?'

'I cannot eat. I think you have understood me clearly.'

'You wish me to go?'

'I beg.'

'It pains me, dear madam.'

'It relieves me, if you will. Here is your horse.'

She gave her hand. He touched it and bent. He looked at her. A surge of

impossible questions rolled to his mouth and rolled back, with the

thought of an incredible thing, that her manner, more than her words,

held him from doubting.

'I obey you,' he said.

'You are kind.'

He mounted horse, raised hat, paced on, and again bowing, to one of the

wayside trees, cantered. The man was gone; but not from Nataly's vision

that face of wet chalk under one of the shades of fire.