CHAPTER XXVIII
A month had flown by on the swift wings of Summer. Already a crispness in the air heralded in Dame Autumn; with her rainbow-hued cloak trailing golds and reds, glittering with the diamonds strewn by the first hoar frost, as she passed.
At Worthing the beach marked the change of seasons. The bathing tents were folded up, the deck chairs had departed. Loving couples no longer lay stretched out on the warm pebbles, their faces hidden by handkerchiefs or the folds of a comic paper, in the fond belief—like the proverbial ostrich—that the rest of them (hands locked together or arms clinging around waists) was invisible to the critical public. The motor char-à-bancs ceased running, all save one that still plied on that straight white road that leads to Brighton, over the long bridge guarded by lions and past the little settlements of clustering bungalows.
In the back of that conveyance, on this particular sunny day, a single occupant was exposed to the keen breeze, protected by a motor veil of dark blue chiffon that obscured the outline of her face. The wide inviting stretch of sea with its curling waves, ivory tipped, was lost to her, and the silvery gleam of gulls dipping to the water. In the blue arch of the sky above, clouds of dazzling white were driven by the east wind, massed together to salute the great golden sun.
It was not only the heavy veil that shut the vision from her sight. For Mrs. Uniacke was not, in any sense, an observant woman. Beauty as beauty left her untouched or filled her with a faint distress. There was so much "to be done in life"—this was her strenuous daily creed—that to pause by the way and enjoy God's gifts became a sinful waste of the fleeting moments, destined to work.
Her restlessness of body and mind forbade that pleasant state in which the spirit frees itself from more material cares to absorb Nature's picture, utterly soothed by a sense of colour or light or of exquisite proportion.
Yet, for all her unconsciousness of the birth of a new season on Earth, a similar awakening stirred in the depths of her woman's heart. For the object of her journey was a meeting with Stephen Somerfield; her thoughts were full of that young man to the exclusion of all else.
The delicate flush on her bird-like face and the soft excitement in her eyes betrayed the emotions that warred within, self-accusing, yet triumphant. At the end of a long spell of silence Stephen had written a clever letter explaining away his neglect of Jill and throwing himself on the mother's mercy.
He had placed the blame on the girl's shoulders with a brief account of her attitude vis-à-vis to himself, her rebellious disregard of his wishes, her flat refusal to take his advice.
"I can quite understand how you feel"—he wrote with apparent candour—"I can find no excuse for my conduct. But you must see how difficult it was for me to force myself on such a plainly unwilling companion—one, moreover, who had not scrupled to openly show her dislike to me.
"I was there in a semi-official position. I had my own work to do—not militant, it is true, but important in its lesser way. On my arrival the night before I found a mass of correspondence—the trouble incident to the fire, police reports, etc., etc.—and had I not known your keen desire that Jill should be left in my charge, I should not have gone to the meeting at all, but acted as I eventually did.
"I see now that I was wrong to stay away, but—to speak plainly—Jill had been so rude to me that my pride at last rose in arms.
"I knew she was with some excellent women, two of whom were your personal friends, and, of course, I hadn't the faintest idea there was likely to be serious trouble.
"Believe me, dear Mrs. Uniacke, I am more grieved than I can express..." the letter became personal, dealing with the break in their friendship, begged humbly for forgiveness and craved a "final interview" at Brighton, where he awaited her answer.
Luckily for the young man's object, his apology had been well timed, arriving at Worthing late one evening at the close of a stormy family scene.
Mrs. Uniacke's displeasure had fallen heavily on Jill. For Roddy, at last, had summoned courage to approach his mother on the subject of the profession to which he aspired; to be met with immediate opposition, rendered more galling by contempt. "Become an Artist!" The soldier's widow stared at the boy's excited face. "Whoever heard of such nonsense? You'll go to Sandhurst if I can afford it—that was what your father planned."
Jill had plunged into the fray, backing up the youthful rebel, had lost her temper and spoken strongly, stirred by her own College traditions, on the liberty due to the new generation.
Mrs. Uniacke, whose strength did not lie in argument, claimed that until he came of age Roddy owed her unswerving obedience.
Jill had actually laughed at this.
"You can't expect it—not on a subject as serious as his whole future. He's a human being—just like you!—Why can't he have a voice in the matter? He's not fitted for a soldier—he's an artist to his finger tips. Well!—you can try and send him to Sandhurst but you can't make him pass his Exams!"
Roddy, white lipped and deeply hurt, had caught his sister's eye and chuckled.
"That's a sound idea," he said. "Thank you, Jill—I won't forget."
At this point Mrs. Uniacke had fallen back on her last resource—tears; and, her handkerchief to her eyes, had ordered her children up to bed.
"Just as if we still wore socks!" Jill, rebellious, had whispered as they climbed up the dingy stairs of the tiny furnished house by the sea. "Never mind, old boy—you shan't be a soldier. I'll see to that. In a few years' time I'll have my money that Father left me. She can't touch that! I believe Aunt Elizabeth would help if it came to a pinch..." she broke off as "Rat-tat"—down below came the postman's knock.
She leaned over the banisters and called to the servant in the hall.
"Anything for me, Ada?"
"No, miss—one for your mother."
A shadow fell across Jill's face. She longed for a letter from McTaggart, now staying with the Leasons. Then she smiled back at her brother.
"Let's hope it's not from Stephen!"
"Pity she doesn't make him a soldier. He'd get the V.C.——" said the boy. At this they both laughed aloud.
Mrs. Uniacke, in the drawing-room, heard the sound and hardened her heart. With trembling fingers she tore the envelope open and hastily read the contents.
She had quarrelled with Stephen on Jill's behalf ... The simple fact in her present mood was magnified into sacrifice of her own happiness for her daughter.
A lonely woman—so she judged herself, plaintively—she had severed the link that bound her to her truest friend ... Her thoughts ran on tumultuously.
Obeying a sudden powerful impulse, she sat down, then and there, and wrote an answer to the man, agreeing to an interview.
The next morning she had a wire begging her to come to lunch at the little hotel where he stayed. Defiance of her children's opinion had spurred her into a prompt acceptance and here she was, embarked on adventure, without their faintest suspicion of it.
She had advanced, as her excuse for the journey, a day's shopping at Brighton, salving her conscience with the thought of several commissions she might do. Jill, still in heavy disgrace, had breathed an inward sigh of relief, little guessing the real cause for the outing was the hated Stephen.
Now, as the heavy char-à-banc churned along the dusty road, Mrs. Uniacke's mind was bent on the approaching interview. She would not acknowledge to herself how much the man meant in her life. With resolutely blind-fold eyes she called herself his "Second Mother."
But, in truth, a new feeling had crept into their intercourse of late, a hint of sentiment veiled in respect, that held no trace of maternal love. He ruled her under the smiling mask of a fellow worker—a willing slave! And for this delicate, middle-aged lady an Indian Summer tide of love had dawned unrealized: a love that was none the less perilous for its comfortable cloak of friendship.
For little Mrs. Uniacke, that ardent champion of Woman's Rights, was a slave herself—to convention. She knew to an inch what was "proper" and appropriate to "her dignity." He was young enough to be her son. That placed the intimacy to her simple mind on a decorous footing. She could exert a motherly "influence" over his life.
The char-à-banc put her down opposite the Aquarium. She had but a few steps to walk up the Old Steine to find the Hotel facing the narrow side street and advertising "superb sea view."
A German waiter greeted her, struggling into his tail-coat.
"Ach yes! By hier, Madame. Mizter Zomerfield, 'e waits..."
He threw open a dingy door marked "Private." For the first time Mrs. Uniacke felt a slight sense of embarrassment—the shrinking that a stranger knows on landing in an unknown country.
But the next moment she stood inside a small sitting-room, neatly furnished, with a luncheon table, gay with flowers, laid for two. She was alone.
As the door closed she turned to the glass and threw back her veil with a sigh of relief.
In the gray light filtering through the somewhat heavily curtained window her face looked surprisingly youthful. The delicate colour in her cheeks, the bright eyes and soft hair were framed by the floating folds of chiffon; her figure, still slender, was almost girlish in the coat and skirt of navy serge that opened over a white silk blouse, with its narrow tie of mauve ribbon.
And, for a moment, she felt startled. What was she doing in this place? She thrust away the faint scruple, conscious of its absurdity. Many a time had she and Stephen stayed together in hotels, engaged on their suffrage work, without the slightest self-consciousness.
Yet this was different...
Her colour heightened as she asked herself the reason why? Then she heard his step in the hall and turned quickly away from the glass.
Stephen, slim and elegant, in his grey flannels, stood before her, hand outstretched, a welcoming light in the long lashed green eyes.
"H'are you?" He held in his clasp her fingers that, despite her will, trembled slightly, and gazed down at the pretty flushed face.
"This is good of you, dear lady,"—his voice was low and sentimental. "More than I deserve, you know."
Carefully he closed the door as she murmured something in reply and came back to her side.
"I never saw you look so well! It's just too ... nice to have you here—and I'm goin' to ask a further favour——" he gave her a beseeching glance—"Just to postpone our ... business talk—and lunch first—without a word of all that painful Cluar affair. Do be kind and say you will? I promise to listen afterwards——" boyishly he added the words—"to all that you have to say to me. I know you feel awfully vexed—but just—for a little—let's forget it."
Inwardly Mrs. Uniacke felt relieved at the postponement of the lecture she had prepared.
Still—there was her "dignity." She must uphold that at any cost.
"I should prefer to discuss it first. That was my object in coming here, as I wrote in my letter, Stephen."
"Ah—don't be hard on me," he broke in quickly, seeing her waver. "I've been through such a bad time." He gave a sigh that was genuine, aware of a new financial crisis. To quarrel with the woman before him was the last thing he desired. He owed her now a considerable sum of money, far more than he could repay. As friends this state of indebtedness could drift on indefinitely, but if it came to a real rupture? He shrank from the thought of a settlement.
Far better, he said to himself, to plunge deeper and make her his wife. And why not? It would mean a home and a certain settled future for him. He could lead his own life as before, with a little care for "appearances." The very fact of the years between them should make her indulgent to the faults of youth.
This was at the back of his mind, as he went on in a pleading voice: "And I'm not altogether to blame ... so do grant me this last favour." He glanced sideways at the table and his face brightened. In its pail of ice stood a large bottle, the neck wreathed in gold foil. This would help!
"Well—it's a bargain?"—he smiled at her—"no real business till after lunch—it will be like old times!—And then—you shall scold me as much as you wish!"
Mrs. Uniacke gave way, conscious of the familiar charm. Stephen, inwardly amused, rang the bell and they sat down.
The meal had been ordered with special care. Few women, accustomed daily to study the tastes of their men at home before their own choice of dishes, can resist the subtle appeal of a menu, ordered by one of the opposite sex, in which each item shows an unselfish effort to please the invited guest.
Mrs. Uniacke ate lobster and crisp salad (which she loved)—grouse (sternly forbidden at home on the score of extravagance) and confessed gaily to greediness when a chocolate soufflé was laid before her followed up by hothouse peaches and a fragrant cup of coffee. Even her favourite "marrons glacés" graced the narrow luncheon table and the air was sweet with the scent of roses in their last glory of second bloom.
"What a banquet! My dear boy—I'm afraid you've ruined yourself for me. But I really have enjoyed it so!" (The champagne had done its work. Like all women who suffer from nerves alcohol took immediate effect, to be followed, however, by a reaction almost as quick, and lachrymose.)
Stephen knew this and decided to burn his boats without delay.
"Nothing's good enough for you!" He left his seat and handed her a cigarette with a smile.
But she laughed it away, her eyes bright.
"I never smoke—you know that, Stephen."
"Try one. I think you'd look prettier still..." he checked himself. "Sorry—it slipped out!—I forgot you always hated compliments."
"You forget I'm an old woman!" She caught at the phrase in self-defence. "Old enough to be your mother."
"You...?"—he stooped over her—"I ... sometimes ... almost wish you were!"
"Stephen!"—she drew away, startled. "You mustn't talk like that!" But she felt a curious exultation, a sudden throb of fear and pride. For oh! Youth is sweet to hold and sad to lose; and a woman clings to the delusion for long years after grey hairs appear.
"Well—I do. You're too ... sweet! Don't you know what it means to me? Have you never even guessed?" He broke off, his eyes dilated.
Mrs. Uniacke shrank back.
"Don't—you mustn't. Stephen!—you're mad!" ... For the man was on his knees by her side; her hands were caught, she could feel his lips, smooth and young, pressed upon them.
"I can't help it!—You know now. Of course you'll send me out of your life. But, this once, I've got to tell you—I love you so!"—the words were out.
And, indeed, a spark of truth lay in the declaration. This lover's scene, carefully rehearsed by him, found him amazed at the strength of his own desire. He stood upon the brink of passion. For habit plays queer tricks, and the daily intercourse of years had flowered unseen. This was the fruit.
All that was good in Somerfield went out toward the loving woman who had played the part of mother to him, a lonely man through his own folly. And all that was base prompted him to take this chance that life still offered: a home, the tender care of a wife in the midst of financial ruin.
He had staked on the last deal of the cards. The costly lunch, the private room, the wine, the flowers ... his own youth ... thrown down with a gambler's hand.
But to the woman sitting there no such sordid picture rose. She was lost in a glory that dazzled her—this wonderful new gift of love!
Tears stole into her eyes over the bent head pressed to her hands—the thick, fair hair with its youthful gloss, the supple shoulders that breathed of strength. Could she—dare she live out the dream? For she knew, at last, that she loved Stephen; that this Indian Summer of life could be hers, a swift thrusting away of age.
No more need she face the lonely years.
Jill would marry. Roddy go forth to fight his battle with the world—to disappoint her cherished hopes. What was left her? The tears ran down.
"Stephen..."
He raised his eyes to hers, bewildered himself by his own emotion.
"I know——" a sudden despair gripped him. "Your children?" He watched her moodily, trying to define her thoughts. Then, as across some silent pool, a mischievous breeze sends an answering ripple, he saw a wave of resentment pass over her tense and delicate face.
"Jill!" The name slipped from her lips. The old rancour against the child who had outgrown her, forming views on life apart from the mother's standard and held to them, strong, rebellious, rose up, flooding her with a painful sense of helplessness.
She did not see that her Suffrage work had interfered with that of her home, that her own involuntary neglect of her children had sapped her influence.
"I should not ask for Jill's advice!—What does she ever care for mine? She will go her own way—to the end!—And so shall I."—Her voice rang with a new imperious note. Stephen saw he had gained the day.
"Mary!"—his arms were around her. "You will...? You do ... care a little?"
Triumph flamed in his face but the fond woman saw only love.
"Wait——" she drew back, timid again. "I must think first. It's too serious. I can't answer you like this..." But the man held her still closer.
"You can—you shall!" He knew his power—"I want you. You shan't go from here—except as my promised wife! It's either that—or good-bye." He felt her quiver at the word. "I can't stand it any more—this playing at friendship—it's not fair! Say you love me—say it, Mary?" There came a desperate little pause.
Mrs. Uniacke felt the room spinning round before her eyes. In a mist she saw her lover's face, heard the ardent, pleading voice...
And the sense of a dream returned to her—a dream too sweet to relinquish. She must not—could not wake again!
With a stifled cry she kissed Stephen.