A Study In Shadows

by William John Locke

“But I will discuss it; I am a virtuous woman, and I don't like to see such things. He is too good to fall a victim. I shall speak to the professor.”

“Do you think a gentleman like the professor would listen to you, Frau Schultz?” asked Felicia, scarcely veiling her disgust.

This was a new idea to Frau Schultz. She turned it over with some curiosity, and metaphorically sniffed at it. Then she left it alone, to Felicia's relief, and the rest of their conversation passed without allusion to the subject.

But her comments upon the meeting in the Jardin Anglais made an unpleasant impression upon the girl, revived the memory of the previous indictment of Katherine which she had rebutted with such indignation. But now, she could not regard Katherine with the same feelings of loyalty. On the contrary, the growing distrust and antagonism seemed to have come to a head. The instinct of combat was aroused in her for the first time, and she began to dislike Katherine with a younger woman's strong, active dislike.

Unconsciously to herself, the atmosphere of the pension had tainted the purity of her judgment. She had learned that little knowledge of things evil which is so dangerous. Katherine was not to her merely a rival, loving Raine Chetwynd with a fair, pure love like her own, but a scheming woman, one of those to whom love is a pastime, occupation, vanity—she knew not what—but still a thing unhonoured and conferring no honour on the man. And, as the days went on, this attitude became more definite, gaining stability in measure as the woman within her took the place of the child. The thought, too, took shape: why should she not use maidenly means to keep him by her side, when Katherine used unworthy ones? And with the thought her ashamedness wore off, and she began to battle bravely for her love.

Katherine could not help noticing these signs of active rivalry. At first she was hurt. She would have dearly liked to retain Felicia's friendship. But what could she do?

She was in her room one morning when the sound of a carriage drawing up in the street below, struck upon her ear. Out of idle curiosity she stepped upon the little balcony and looked down. Old Mr. Chetwynd, Raine and Felicia were going out for a drive. She watched them settle themselves laughingly in their places, and smiled not unkindly at Felicia's young radiant face. But as they drove off, Felicia glanced up, caught sight of her, and the expression changed. Its triumph smote Katherine with a sense of pain. She retired from the balcony wearily. A vague fancy came to her to go away from Geneva, to leave the field open for Felicia. She dallied with it for a moment. And then the fierce reaction set in.

No. A thousand times no. Why should she be quixotic? Whoever in the world had acted quixotically towards her? Her life had been wrecked—up to now, without one gleam of light in any far-off haven. She had been tossed about by the waves, an idle derelict. Only lately had hope come. It was a wild, despairing hope, at the best—but it had kept her alive for the past six months Why should she give way to this young girl—untouched, untroubled save by this one first girlish fancy? All the world was before her, waiting with its tributes to throw at the feet of her youth and fairness and charm. In a few months she would go out into it again, leave the Pension Boccard and its narrowing life for ever. In a year it would be but a memory, Raine Chetwynd but a blushing episode. Many men would love her. She would have her pick of the noblest. Why should she herself then yield her single frail hope to her who had so many fair ones?

She clung with passionate insistence to this self-justification. Since her lot of loneliness had fallen upon her, she had accepted it implicitly, never sought to form ties of even the most delicate and ephemeral nature. She had contemplated the grey, loveless, lonely stretch of future years as the logical consequence of the past, and sometimes its stern inevitableness crushed her. Life for life, which had the greater need of joy—her own or that of the young girl? The law of eternal justice seemed to ring answer in her heart—as it has rung in the heart of every daughter of Hagar since the world began.

Late that evening she was standing on the balcony outside the salon. They had passed a merry evening. A concert-singer from London, who had arrived the day before, had good-naturedly sung for them. Old Mr. Chetwynd had been witty and charming. Commandant Pornichon had told, with Gascon verve, stories of camp and war. Raine had talked and laughed in his wholehearted way. Everyone had been gay, good-tempered. Felicia had been in buoyant mood, adding her fresh note to the talk; had even addressed to her a few laughing words. One by one all had left the salon. The last had been Mme. Popea, who had remained for a quiet chatter with her about the events of the evening. She was alone now, in the moonlight, feeling less at war with herself than during the day. Laughter and song are good for the heart. She leant her cheek on her elbow and mused. Perhaps she was a wicked woman to try to come between a girl and her happiness. After all, would not the sacrifice of self be a noble thing?