CHAPTER XIII
A psychologist would have found much to interest him in Bridget Cookson's mental state during the days which followed on her journey to France. The immediate result of that journey was an acute sharpening of intelligence, accompanied by a steady, automatic repression of all those elements of character or mind which might have interfered with its free working. Bridget understood perfectly that she had committed a crime, and at first she had not been able to protect herself against the normal reaction of horror or fear. But the reaction passed very quickly. Conscience gave up the ghost. Selfish will, and keen wits held the field; and Bridget ceased to be more than occasionally uncomfortable, though a certain amount of anxiety was of course inevitable.
She did not certainly want to be found out, either by Nelly or the Farrells; and she took elaborate steps to prevent it. She wrote first a long letter to Howson giving her reasons for refusing to believe in his tentative identification of the man at X—— as George Sarratt, and begging him not to write to her sister. 'That would be indeed cruel. She can just get along now, and every month she gets a little stronger. But her heart, which was weakened by the influenza last year, would never stand the shock of a fearful disappointment. Please let her be. I take all the responsibility. That man is not George Sarratt. I hope you may soon discover who he is.'
Step No. 2 was to go, on the very morning after she arrived in London, to the Enquiry Office in A—— Street. Particulars of the case in France had that morning reached the office, and Bridget was but just in time to stop a letter from Miss Eustace to Nelly. When she pointed out that she had been over to France on purpose to see for herself, that there was no doubt at all in her own mind, and that it would only torment a frail invalid to no purpose to open up the question, the letter was of course countermanded. Who could possibly dispute a sister's advice in such a case? And who could attribute the advice to anything else than sisterly affection!
Meanwhile among the mountains an unusually early winter was beginning to set in. The weather grew bitterly cold, and already a powdering of snow was on the fell-tops. For all that, Nelly could never drink deep enough of the November beauty, as it shone upon the fells through some bright frosty days. The oaks were still laden with leaf; the fern was still scarlet on the slopes; and the ghylls and waterfalls leapt foaming white down their ancestral courses. And in this austerer world, Nelly's delicate personality, as though braced by the touch of winter, seemed to move more lightly and buoyantly. She was more vividly interested in things and persons—in her drawing, her books, her endless knitting and sewing for the wounded. She was puzzled that Bridget stayed so long in town, but alack! she could do very well without Bridget. Some portion of the savour of life, of that infinity of small pleasures which each day may bring for the simple and the pure in heart, was again hers. Insensibly the great wound was healing. The dragging anguish of the first year assailed her now but rarely.
One morning she opened the windows in the little sitting-room, to let in the sunshine, and the great spectacle of the Pikes wrapped in majestic shadow, purple-black, with the higher peaks ranged in a hierarchy of light behind them.
She leant far out of the window, breathing in the tonic smell of the oak leaves on the grass beneath her, and the freshness of the mountain air. Then, as she turned back to the white-walled raftered room with its bright fire, she was seized with the pleasantness of this place which was now her home. Insensibly it had captured her heart, and her senses. And who was it—what contriving brain—had designed and built it up, out of the rough and primitive dwelling it had once been?
Of course, William Farrell had done it all! There was scarcely a piece of furniture, a picture, a book, that was not of his choosing and placing. Little by little, they had been gathered round her. His hand had touched and chosen them, every one. He took far more pleasure and interest in the details of these few rooms than in any of his own houses and costly possessions.
Suddenly—as she sat there on the window-ledge, considering the room, her back to the mountains—one of those explosions of consciousness rushed upon Nelly, which, however surprising the crash, are really long prepared and inevitable.
What did that room really mean—the artistic and subtle simplicity of it?—the books, the flowers, and the few priceless things, drawings or terra-cottas, brought from the cottage, and changed every few weeks by Farrell himself, who would arrive with them under his arm, or in his pockets, and take them back in like manner.
The colour flooded into Nelly's face. She dropped it in her hands with a low cry. An agony seized her. She loathed herself.
Then springing up passionately she began to pace the narrow floor, her slender arms and hands locked behind her.
Sir William was coming that very evening. So was Cicely, who was to be her own guest at the farm, while Marsworth, so she heard, was to have the spare room at the cottage.
She had not seen William Farrell for some time—for what counted, at least, as some time in their relation; not since that evening before Bridget went away—more than a fortnight. But it was borne in upon her that she had heard from him practically every day. There, in the drawer of her writing-table, lay the packet of his letters. She looked for them now morning after morning, and if they failed her, the day seemed blank. Anybody might have read them—or her replies. None the less Farrell's letters were the outpouring of a man's heart and mind to the one person with whom he felt himself entirely at ease. The endless problems and happenings of the great hospital to which he was devoting more and more energy, and more and more wealth; the incidents and persons that struck him; his loves and hates among the staff or the patients; the humour or the pity of the daily spectacle;—it was all there in his letters, told in a rich careless English that stuck to the memory. Nelly was accustomed to read and re-read them.
Yes, and she was proud to receive them!—proud that he thought so much of her opinion and cared so much for her sympathy. But why did he write to her, so constantly, so intimately?—what was the real motive of it all?
At last, Nelly asked herself the question. It was fatal of course. So long as no question is asked of Lohengrin—who, what, and whence he is—the spell holds, the story moves. But examine it, as we all know, and the vision fades, the gleam is gone.
She passed rapidly, and almost with terror, into a misery of remorse. What had she been doing with this kindest and best of men? Allowing him to suppose that after a little while she would be quite ready to forget George and be his wife? That threw her into a fit of helpless crying. The tears ran down her cheeks as she moved to and fro. Her George!—falling out there, in that ghastly No Man's Land, dying out there, alone, with no one to help, and quiet now in his unknown grave. And after little more than a year she was to forget him, and be rich and happy with a new lover—a new husband?
She seemed to herself the basest of women. Base towards George—and towards Farrell—both! What could she do?—what must she do? Oh, she must go away—she must break it all off! And looking despairingly round the room, which only an hour before had seemed to her so dear and familiar, she tried to imagine herself in exile from all it represented, cut off from Farrell and from Cicely, left only to her own weak self.
But she must—she must! That very evening she must speak to Willy—she must have it out. Of course he would urge her to stay there—he would promise to go away—and leave her alone. But that would be too mean, too ungrateful. She couldn't banish him from this spot that he loved, where he snatched his few hours—always now growing fewer—of rest and pleasure. No, she must just depart. Without telling him? Without warning? Her will failed her.
She got out her table, with its knitting, and its bundles of prepared work which had arrived that morning from the workroom, and began upon one of them mechanically. But she was more and more weighed down by a sense of catastrophe—which was also a sense of passionate shame. Why, she was George's wife, still!—his wife—for who could know, for certain, that he was dead? That was what the law meant. Seven years!
* * * * *
She spent the day in a wretched confusion of thoughts and plans. A telegram from Cicely arrived about midday—'Can't get to you till to-morrow. Willy and Marsworth coming to-day—Marsworth not till late.'
So any hour might bring Farrell. She sat desperately waiting for him. Meanwhile there was a post-card from Bridget saying that she too would probably arrive that evening.
That seemed the last straw. Bridget would merely think her a fool; Bridget would certainly quarrel with her. Why, it had been Bridget's constant object to promote the intimacy with the Farrells, to throw her and Sir William together. Nelly remembered her own revolts and refusals. They seemed now so long ago! In those days it was jealousy for George that filled her, the fierce resolve to let no one so much as dream that she could ever forget him, and to allow no one to give money to George's wife, for whom George himself had provided, and should still provide. And at an earlier stage—after George left her, and before he died—she could see herself, as she looked back, keeping Sir William firmly at a distance, resenting those friendly caressing ways, which others accepted—which she too now accepted, so meekly, so abominably! She thought of his weekly comings and goings, as they were now; how, in greeting and good-bye, he would hold her hands, both of them, in his; how once or twice he had raised them to his lips. And it had begun to seem quite natural to her, wretch that she was; because he pitied her, because he was so good to her—and so much older, nearly twenty years. He was her brother and dear friend, and she the little sister whom he cherished, who sympathised with all he did, and would listen as long as he pleased, while he talked of everything that filled his mind—the war news, his work, his books, his companions; or would sit by, watching breathlessly while his skilful hand put down some broad 'note' of colour or light, generally on a page of her own sketch-book.
Ah, but it must end—it must end! And she must tell him to-night.
Then she fell to thinking of how it was she had been so blind for so long; and was now in this tumult of change. One moment, and she was still the Nelly of yesterday, cheerful, patient, comforted by the love of her friends; and the next, she had become this poor, helpless thing, struggling with her conscience, her guilty conscience, and her sorrow. How had it happened? There was something uncanny, miraculous in it. But anyway, there, in a flash it stood revealed—her treason to George—her unkindness to Willy.
For she would never marry him—never! She simply felt herself an unfaithful wife—a disloyal friend.
* * * * *
The November day passed on, cloudless, to its red setting over the Coniston fells. Wetherlam stood black against the barred scarlet of the west, and all the valleys lay veiled in a blue and purple mist, traversed by rays of light, wherever a break in the mountain wall let the sunset through. The beautiful winter twilight had just begun, when Nelly heard the step she waited for outside.
She did not run to the window to greet him as she generally did. She sat still, by the fire, her knitting on her knee. Her black dress was very black, with the plainest white ruffle at her throat. She looked very small and pitiful. Perhaps she meant to look it! The weak in dealing with the strong have always that instinctive resource.
'How jolly to find you alone!' said Farrell joyously, as he entered the room. 'I thought Miss Bridget was due.' He put down the books with which he had come laden and approached her with outstretched hands. 'I say!—you don't look well!' His look, suddenly sobered, examined her.
'Oh yes, I am quite well. Bridget comes to-night.'
She hurriedly withdrew herself, and he sat down opposite her, holding some chilly fingers to the blaze, surveying her all the time.
'Why doesn't Bridget stop here and look after you?'
Nelly laughed. 'Because she has much more interesting things to do!'
'That's most unlikely! Have you been alone all the week?'
'Yes, but quite busy, thank you—and quite well.' 'You don't look it,' he repeated gravely, after a moment.
'So busy, and so well,' she insisted, 'that even I can't find excuses for idling here much longer.'
He gave a perceptible start. 'What does that mean? What are you going to do?'
'I don't know. But I think'—she eyed him uneasily—'hospital work of some kind.'
He shook his head.
'I wouldn't take you in my hospital! You'd knock up in a week.'
'You're quite, quite mistaken,' she said, eagerly. 'I can wash dishes and plates now as well as anyone. Hester told me the other day of a small hospital managed by a friend of hers—where they want a parlour-maid. I could do that capitally.'
'Where is it?' he asked, after a moment.
She hesitated, and at last said evasively—
'In Surrey somewhere—I think.'
He took up the tongs, and deliberately put the fire together, in silence. At last he said—
'I thought you promised Cicely and me that you wouldn't attempt anything of the kind?'
'Not till I was fit.' Her voice trembled a little. 'But now I am—quite fit.'
'You should let your friends judge that for you,' he said gently.
'No, no, I can't. I must judge for myself.' She spoke with growing agitation. 'You have been so awfully, awfully good to me!—and now'—she bent forward and laid a pleading hand on his arm—'now you must be good to me in another way I you must let me go. I brood here too much. I want not to think—I am so tired of myself. Let me go and think about other people—drudge a little—and slave a little! Let me—it will do me good!'
His face altered perceptibly during this appeal. When he first came in, fresh from the frosty air, his fair hair and beard flaming in the firelight, his eyes all pleasure, he had seemed the embodiment of whatever is lusty and vigorous in life—an overwhelming presence in the little cottage room. But he had many subtler aspects. And as he listened to her, the Viking, the demi-god, disappeared.
'And what about those—to whom it will do harm?'
'Oh no, it won't do harm—to anybody,' she faltered.
'It will do the greatest harm!'—he laid a sharp emphasis on the words. 'Isn't it worth while to be just the joy and inspiration of those who can work hard—so that they go away from you, renewed like eagles? Cicely and I come—we tell you our troubles—our worries—our failures, and our successes. We couldn't tell them to anyone else. But you sit here; and you're so gentle and so wise—you see things so clearly, just because you're not in the crowd, not in the rough and tumble—that we go away—bucked up!—and run our shows the better for our hours with you. Why must women be always bustling and hurrying, and all of them doing the same things? If you only knew the blessing it is to find someone with a little leisure just to feel, and think!—just to listen to what one has to say. You know I am always bursting with things to say!'
He looked at her with a laugh. His colour had risen.
'I arrive here—often—full of grievances and wrath against everybody—hating the Government—hating the War Office—hating our own staff, or somebody on it—entirely and absolutely persuaded that the country is going to the dogs, and that we shall be at Germany's mercy in six months. Well, there you sit—I don't know how you manage it!—but somehow it all clears away. I don't want to hang anybody any more—I think we are going to win—I think our staff are splendid fellows, and the nurses, angels—(they ain't, though, all the same!)—and it's all you!—just by being you—just by giving me rope enough—letting me have it all out. And I go away with twice the work in me I had when I came. And Cicely's the same—and Hester. You play upon us all—just because'—he hesitated—'because you're so sweet to us all. You raise us to a higher power; you work through us. Who else will do it if you desert us?'
Her lips trembled.
'I don't want to desert you, but—what right have I to such comfort—such luxury—when other people are suffering and toiling?'
He raised his eyebrows.
'Luxury? This little room? And there you sit sewing and knitting all day! And I'll be bound you don't eat enough to keep a sparrow!'
There was silence. She was saying to herself—'Shall I ever be able to go?—to break with them all?' The thought, the image, of George flashed again through her mind. But why was it so much fainter, so much less distinct than it had been an hour ago? Yet she seemed to turn to him, to beg him piteously to protect her from something vague and undefined.
Suddenly a low voice spoke—
'Nelly!—don't go!'
She looked up—startled—her childish eyes full of tears.
He held out his hand, and she could not help it, she yielded her own.
Farrell's look was full of energy, of determination. He drew nearer to her, still holding her hand. But he spoke with perfect self-control.
'Nelly, I won't deceive you! I love you! You are everything to me. It seems as if I had never been happy—never known what happiness could possibly mean till I knew you. To come here every week—to see you like this for these few hours—it changes everything—it sweetens everything—because you are in my heart—because I have the hope—that some day——'
She withdrew her hand and covered her face.
'Oh, it's my fault—my fault!' she said, incoherently—'how could
I?—how could I?'
There was silence again. He opened his lips to speak once or twice, but no words came. One expression succeeded another on his face; his eyes sparkled. At last he said—'How could you help it? You could not prevent my loving you.'
'Yes, I could—I ought——,' she said, vehemently. 'Only I was a fool—I never realised. That's so like me. I won't face things. And yet'—she looked at him miserably—'I did beg you to let me live my own life—didn't I?—not to spoil me—not—not to be so kind to me.'
He smiled.
'Yes. But then you see—you were you!'
She sprang up, looking down upon him, as he sat by the fire. 'That's just it. If I were another person! But no!—no! I can't be your friend. I'm not old enough—or clever enough. And I can't ever be anything else.'
'Why?' He asked it very quietly, his eyes raised to hers. He could see the quick beat of her breath under her black dress.
'Because I'm not my own. I'm not free—you know I'm not. I'm not free legally—and I'm not free in heart. Oh, if George were to come in at that door!'—she threw back her head with a passionate gesture—'there would be nobody else in the world for me—nobody—nobody!'
He stooped over the fire, fidgeting with it, so that his face was hidden from her.
'You know, I think, that if I believed there was the faintest hope of that, I should never have said a word—of my own feelings. But as it is—why must you feel bound to break up this—this friendship, which means so much to us all? What harm is there in it? Time will clear up a great deal. I'll hold my tongue—I promise you. I won't bother you. I won't speak of it again—for a year—or more—if you wish. But—don't forsake us!'
He looked up with that smile which in Cicely's unbiased opinion gave him such an unfair advantage over womankind.
With a little sob, Nelly walked away towards the window, which was still uncurtained though the night had fallen. Outside there was a starry deep of sky, above Wetherlam and the northern fells. The great shapes held the valley in guard; the river windings far below seemed still to keep the sunset; while here and there shone scattered lights in farms and cottages, sheltering the old, old life of the dales.
Insensibly Nelly's passionate agitation began to subside. Had she been filling her own path with imaginary perils and phantoms? Yet there echoed in her mind the low-spoken words—'I won't deceive you! I love you!' And the recollection both frightened and touched her.
Presently Farrell spoke again, quite in his usual voice.
'I shall be in despair if you leave me to tackle Cicely alone. She's been perfectly mad lately. But you can put it all right if you choose.'
Nelly was startled into turning back towards him.
'Oh!—how can I?'
'Tell her she has been behaving abominably, and making a good fellow's life a burden to him. Scold her! Laugh at her!'
'What has she been doing?' said Nelly, still standing by the window.
Farrell launched into a racy and elaborate account—the effort of one determined, coûte que coûte, to bring the conversation back to an ordinary key—of Cicely's proceedings, during the ten days since Nelly had seen her.
It appeared that Marsworth, after many weeks during which they had heard nothing of him, had been driven north again to his Carton doctor, by a return of neuralgic trouble in his wounded arm; and as usual had put up at the Rectory, where as usual Miss Daisy, the Rector's granddaughter, had ministered to him like the kind little brick she was.
'You see, she's altogether too good to be true!' said Farrell. 'And yet it is true. She looks after her grandfather and the parish. She runs the Sunday school, and all the big boys are in love with her. She does V.A.D. work at the hospital. She spends nothing on her dress. She's probably up at six every morning. And all the time, instead of being plain, which of course virtue ought to be, she's as pretty as possible—like a little bird. And Cicely can't abide her. I don't know whether she's in love with Marsworth. Probably she is. Why not? At any rate, whenever Marsworth and Cicely fall out, which they do every day—Cicely has the vile habit—of course you know!—of visiting Marsworth's sins upon little Daisy Stewart. I understood she was guilty of some enormity at the Red Cross sale in the village last week. Marsworth was shocked, and had it out with her. Consequently they haven't been on speaking terms for days.'
'What shall we do with them to-morrow?' cried Nelly in alarm, coming to sit down again by the fire and taking up her knitting. How strange it was—after that moment of tempestuous emotion—to have fallen back within a few minutes into this familiar, intimate chat! Her pulse was still rushing. She knew that something irrevocable had happened, and that when she was alone, she must face it. And meanwhile here she sat knitting!—and trying to help him with Cicely as usual!
'Oh, and to-morrow!'—said Farrell with amusement, 'the fat will indeed be in the fire.'
And he revealed the fact that on his way through Grasmere he had fallen in with the Stewarts. The old man had been suffering from bronchitis, and the two had come for a few days' change to some cousins at Grasmere.
'And the old man's a bit of a collector and wants to see the Turners. He knows Carton by heart. So I had to ask them to come up to-morrow—and there it is!—Cicely will find them in possession, with Marsworth in attendance!'
'Why does she come at all?' said Nelly, wondering. 'She knows Captain
Marsworth will be here. She said so, in her telegram.'
Farrell shrugged his shoulders.
'"It taks aw soarts to mak a worrld," as they say up here. But Marsworth and Cis are queer specimens! I am privately certain he can't do for long without seeing her. And as for her, I had no sooner arranged that he should join me here to-night, than she telegraphed to you! Just like her! I had no idea she thought of coming. Well, I suppose to quarrel yourself into matrimony is one of the recognised openings!'
The talk dropped. The joint consciousness behind it was too much for it. It fell like a withered leaf.
Farrell got up to go. Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet. He took her hand.
'Don't leave us,' he repeated, softly. 'You are our little saint—you help us by just living. Don't attempt things too hard for you. You'll kill yourself, and then——'
She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes.
'Well then,' he finished, abruptly, 'there won't be much left for one man to live for. Good-night.'
He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small, bewildered creature.
'What shall I do?' she was saying to herself, 'Oh, what ought I to do?'
She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair. Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!—someone wise and strong who would tell her what was right. The thought of supplanting George, of learning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in her heart, was horrible—even monstrous—to her. Yet she did not know how she would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer. His devotion appealed—not to any answering passion in her—there was none—but to an innate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love and be loved. Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her alone and unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still—without harm—have been a help to him—have shewn him her gratitude. She felt herself wavering and retreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her great dilemma. Must she either be disloyal to her George?—her dead, her heroic George!—or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotion had stood between her and despair? After all, might it not still go on? She could protect herself. She was not afraid.
But she was afraid! She was in truth held by the terror of her own weakness, and Farrell's strength, as she lay crouching by the fire.
Outside the wind was rising. Great clouds were coming up from the south-west. The rain had begun. Soon it was lashing the windows, and pouring from the eaves of the old farmhouse.
Nelly went back to her work; and the wind and rain grew wilder as the hours passed. Just as she was thinking wearily of going to bed, there were sounds of wheels outside.
Bridget? so late! Nelly had long since given her up. What a night on which to face the drive from Windermere! Poor horse!—poor man!
Yes, it was certainly Bridget! As Nelly half rose, she heard the harsh, deep voice upon the stairs. A tall figure, heavily cloaked, entered.
'My dear Bridget—I'd quite given you up!'
'No need,' said Bridget coolly, as she allowed Nelly to kiss her cheek. 'The afternoon train from Euston was a little late. You can't help that with all these soldiers about.'
'Come and sit down by the fire. Have you done all you wanted to do?'
'Yes.'
Bridget sat down, after taking off her wet water-proof, and held a draggled hat to the blaze. Nelly looking at her was struck by the fact that Bridget's hair had grown very grey, and the lines in her face very deep. What an extraordinary person Bridget was! What had she been doing all this time?
But nothing could be got out of the traveller. She sat by the fire for a while, and let Nelly get her a tray of food. But she said very little, except to complain of the weather, and, once, to ask if the Farrells were at the cottage.
'Sir William is there, with Captain Marsworth,' said Nelly. 'Cicely comes here to-morrow.'
'Does she expect me to give her my room?' said Bridget sharply.
'Not at all. She likes the little spare-room.'
'Or pretends to! Has Sir William been here to-day?'
'Yes, he came round.'
A few more questions and answers led to silence broken only by the crackling of the fire. The firelight played on Nelly's cheek and throat, and on her white languid hands. Presently it caught her wedding-ring, and Bridget's eye was drawn to the sparkle of the gold. She sat looking absently at her sister. She was thinking of a tiny room in a hut hospital—of the bed—and of those eyes that had opened on her. And there sat Nelly—knowing nothing!
It was all a horrible anxiety. But it couldn't last long.