Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XII Clara Goes Angling

When at length Andrew returned to town, just as everyone else was leaving it for the autumn holiday, he went to see Clara, whom he found still resident in Cavendish Square.

"Hullo! my dear," he said, "what are you doing here? The lawyers wrote to me that they had sold this family mausoleum, and extremely well, although they did not mention the figure."

"Yes, Andrew," replied Clara, who, he noted, was looking quite attractive, "I bought it for the sake of its associations."

"Did you! That's a queer taste of yours. Well, I imagine that you might have got it cheaper."

"Thank you, Andrew, but I paid what I thought the place worth to me, as I can well afford to do."

She did not add that she had given about four times its market value, being desirous of adding to Andrew's resources in a way which would not excite his suspicions. Here it may be said that this manoeuvre was quite successful, since he never took the trouble to inquire further about the matter. Nor need too much credit be given to Clara over this transaction. She was a keen business woman, but in a way she had a conscience. She knew that she had acquired at least nine–tenths of Andrew's inheritance and that nothing she could say or do would ever induce him to receive one farthing of it back again by way of charity, although she had pointed out, as did his lawyers, that he had good grounds for contesting his uncle's will at law.

She knew moreover that she had done this wittingly. Had she taken a different line with the late Lord Atterton when he was mad with grief over the loss of his son and blindly enraged with Andrew, this injustice might have been prevented, or at the least mitigated. But she had done nothing of the sort, although she was sure that this great fortune hung in the balance. Also she was aware that the issue lay between Andrew and herself, since her uncle had no other relations and was not a man who would wish to benefit charities.

Yet when he vilified Andrew, swearing that he would cut him off with a shilling, or rather without the shilling, with nothing but what he must have, she had merely put in a pro forma defence of her absent cousin, whom she knew to be totally innocent. In short, she had let judgment go by default and instead of sending for the doctor, which was what he needed, had allowed her uncle to visit the lawyer and change his will in her own favour, as she was certain that he would.

All of these things Clara, who had a singularly pellucid and judicial mind, saw clearly enough. To say that they troubled her conscience would be too much, for the reason that, to use an Americanism, she did not bank on conscience. Religion and its trimmings were to Clara matters for decent, outward observance, parts of the conventions that made up the modern code in certain sections of society, something to be put on with her Sunday clothes, and to be stretched or clipped in accordance with the company in which she found herself. She was a woman of her world and never did she pretend to be more or less. Even into this little act of reparation, which she carried through by giving much more than its value for the freehold of a London house, entered other motives. She did not wish Andrew to be an out–of–elbows peer. That would reflect on her as well as on him, especially as some one in the lawyer's office seemed to have been talking, or perhaps it may have been the doctor.

At any rate, the story of her uncle's dementia, for to this it amounted, in the course of which she supplanted his lawful heir, had become the subject of comment even in society papers of the lower class. She was quite willing to make over a large sum to her cousin, as indeed she had offered to do. But here his peculiarities barred the way for which she was sorry, especially as she would have been left with as much as she could spend, and the income from the spirit business was increasing every year. So she did what she could on the quiet, and purposed to do more by similar methods.

Also this cool and very level–headed young lady had other ends in view. Something in one of Andrew's careless notes had given her a clue which she had followed up with patience and industry. Thus she went to Justice Street, ostensibly to obtain his address which was not forthcoming at the House of Lords, and there fell into conversation with Mrs. Josky, from whom she extracted more than that good woman could have imagined. Further, she went to consult Dr. Black about some trifling ailment of her own, and with him she had more conversation. She was even so fortunate as to meet Mrs. Black and, taking an opportunity, suddenly to spring Andrew's name upon her as that of one whom she knew to be an old friend of her own, and watch the result.

A second visit to Mrs. Josky, this time about a lustre tea–pot she had seen in her little shop, filled in the details.

In short, she had the whole story at her finger–ends, and it came to this: That Andrew had been jilted by a pretty fool who did not in the least understand what she was doing, but who, happily for him, was now safely married and out of the way.

Clara was so pleased that in acknowledgment she would gladly have done Rose any good turn in her power, and did in fact take the trouble to introduce her to a most talented and exclusive dressmaker who only worked for a few very distinguished people at equally distinguished prices.

As may have guessed, it was Clara's intention to marry Andrew. That had always been her intention ever since she knew that Algernon could not live. Hitherto, however, there had been some obstacle in her path which, as she now discovered, was the well–favoured but second–rate young person called Rose, who through some curious folly had lost her chance. Now the coast was clear and all was plain sailing, since in such a matter Andrew himself scarcely counted. It was merely a question of how he was handled.

Still, Clara did make a few preparations. For instance, although they bored her extremely, she read certain works on Socialism; she even joined a famous society that advocated some form of this cult, and attended a few of the lectures, where she became acquainted with Dr. Watson and his wife Arabella. Also she worked up interest in medical science and research, on which she perused more text–books. Thus when Andrew finally reappeared from the North she was, as it were, triply armed for the forthcoming encounter.

After all, she reflected, one must marry some one, and he was infinitely the least disagreeable man she knew. Also undoubtedly he had great abilities, which, if well directed, might take him a long way, and with him herself.

Andrew stopped to lunch at Cavendish Square. Although there was no other guest it was a particularly charming lunch, simple, but exquisitely served and cooked. The wine, too, was of the very best, and Andrew, who had been living in an inn and was an abstemious person, drank several glasses. When the meal was finished they went to take coffee in a delightful room that Clara had furnished with great taste as her boudoir, since, having privately given orders that she was not at home, here she knew that they would not be disturbed.

"Andrew," she said presently, after a little pause in the conversation which she feared might herald his departure, "what makes you so sad? Is it the loss of our uncle's fortune, which, of course, you ought to have had?"

"Good gracious! no," he answered. "I have never thought twice about it, and why should I? I've got all I want, and a great deal more than I deserve."

"Still, you are sad and I wish you would tell me why. After all, you and I are cousins who have no other relatives, and we have always been friends and trusted each other. You see, I might be able to help you. Forgive me and don't answer unless you like, but is it anything about a woman?"

"Wouldn't you be sad, Clara, if you found your career suddenly brought to an end through no fault of your own, just because you had the misfortune to become a peer?"

"But why should it come to an end?" she inquired, opening her innocent blue eyes, "for I suppose you mean your doctoring? Why should you not go on working with Dr. Black, even though you have the misfortune to be a peer?" she added, with a faint tinge of sarcasm.

"With Black! It is impossible," he exclaimed, colouring.

Clara opened her eyes still wider and looked bewildered, but said nothing.

"There are circumstances," went on Andrew awkwardly—and stopped.

"Of course I have no idea to what you allude, Andrew, but I have observed that, where a man is concerned, 'circumstances' generally means something to do with a lady."

"Your power of observation was always good, Clara," blurted out Andrew, "and if you want to know the truth, I am no exception to the rule. My 'circumstances' have to do with Mrs. Black."

"Oh! Mrs. Black! I was introduced to her the other day when I went to see the doctor about my glands. She is a very pretty young woman and dresses well, almost a beauty indeed, if she had more animation. Have you been following the fashion, Andrew, and falling in love with your neighbour's wife?"

"No, my neighbour fell in love with my wife, or rather with the woman who should have been my wife. I was engaged to Rose Watson, and while I was away she married Black. That's all the story."

"Indeed! What wonderful escapes some men have; it makes one believe in a watching Providence."

"What on earth do you mean, Clara?"

"What I say, that you have had a wonderful escape. When I think of you with all your ability and prospects married to a pretty, empty–headed doll who is not even a lady—for you know she isn't quite—well, it makes me shiver."

"Don't abuse her, Clara. I loved her.

"I have no doubt you did. It is the sort of thing you would have done. But how did this come about? Was she forced into marriage with that old doctor?"

"No. He was rich and I was poor, that's all. You see, she never understood I had any kind of prospects."

"And you never told her, I suppose. Just like you again. Well, you ought to go down on to your knees and thank Heaven for your deliverance. Oh! it makes me angry that a man should waste another thought upon a woman who played him a trick like that—for money. Why, except that she is infinitely worse, what is the difference between her and, well—never mind? I can only say that if I had done such a thing from so base a motive I should never dare to look any honest person in the face again, and goodness knows I don't set up for any particular virtue. Can't you see it yourself?"

"Yes, only I try not to judge hardly. We all have our weak points, even you may have some somewhere, and might give way if we chance to be tempted on them. Indeed I dare say we have, or shall. You see, hers happened to be money and jewels."

Almost imperceptibly Clara winced, though this Andrew never saw. Then she said in a rather gentler voice:

"I agree, and if it were anything else, love, or even passion, or to help others, oh! anything, I should not dare to condemn. But to sell herself body and soul for money to a man almost old enough to be her grandfather, when she had promised herself to you―"

"Well, Clara, did you never do anything for money?" (Here she winced, and again he did not notice.) "I have. I took Algernon abroad for money, thinking it would help me with Rose. So I can make excuses."

"Andrew, that isn't true. You took Algernon to Egypt because he would go with no one else, and you thought it might save his life. By accusing yourself falsely, you only make her conduct the blacker by contrast. Anyway, it is all done with. You are not going to run after her now she is married, are you, though I dare say she wouldn't mind, having found out who you are? You haven't been seeing her, have you?"

"I have met her twice, by accident both times."

"Then I beg of you as one who is your true friend, and who has no one else to—be interested in, not to allow any more such accidents to happen. Pray, pray keep out of scandals. They are so vulgar and degrading."

"I mean to, Clara. That's why I went up North, and have neither seen nor heard of her since. But I tell you straight out that she hit me very hard; everything one believed in and the rest—all gone at a swoop."

"Of course she did, you poor dear Andrew, and oh! I am so sorry for you" (here the blue eyes filled with tears), "so sorry that I will not try to say how much, lest I should make a fool of myself."

"It is awfully good of you to care so much about me and my follies, and I tell you I shan't forget it, Clara," said Andrew, who was touched as any young man would have been under the circumstances.

"Of course I care, dear," she went on. "Who wouldn't have where a—a cousin was concerned? And I am sorry for that poor girl, too, knowing—what she has lost."

"Oh! you mean the title. Well, I would make her a present of it if I could, for it is no use to me. In fact, it is a hindrance. Now I must be going."

History does not reveal what Clara felt within at such remarks as these. Undoubtedly, however, it was something definite and strong. To hear a young man mock at the possession of a peerage, especially an inherited peerage for which everybody knew he had not paid a sixpence, directly or indirectly, was to her little short of blasphemy. Indeed, sooner could she have forgiven blasphemy itself, since in the tolerant world to which she belonged all have a right to their opinions on religious matters. These are far away, but peerages are extremely near.

Still, to her credit she concealed her feelings, and answered:

"I can quite understand your indifference to rank and money. Indeed, sometimes I feel like that myself, for after all, where do they lead?"

"I shouldn't wonder if our uncle is thinking something of that sort to–day," mused Andrew, who had religious convictions of a sort.

"Our uncle is dead, so let him rest in his grave," said Clara, looking rather shocked.

"Quite so. I'm sure I didn't want to bring him out of it, who, as I hope, has been transported to the Isles of the Blest across an ocean of whisky. Well, good–bye."

"Wait one minute, Andrew, for you know you are only going to a museum or something of that sort. I want to give you a lecture. Sit down and take another cigarette."

"Fire away," said Andrew, obeying.

"I think," remarked Clara, standing over him and shaking a slim finger above his curly head, "I think that you are a reprehensible and even a wicked young man."

"Hear hear," said Andrew. "Agreed, if that is all you have to say. I could tell you about things I have done which would make that neat hair of yours come down."

Clara smiled, having perfect confidence in her coiffure and powers of resisting shock. Then she continued:

"Now I'll show you why. You have great opportunities in the world, if you wish to use them. With your position everything is open to you to which most men only attain thirty or forty years later in life, when they have grown old and their chances have gone by."

Andrew became interested, and asked:

"What can I do? If you will show me anything I can do that is worth the doing, I'll bless you and call you my guardian angel."

"The question is, what can't you do with your brains? You can govern this country, if you like, or take a large share in its government. You can advance the cause of the People and help to establish a true democracy. You can make thousands happy who are now wretched. You can leave the nation stronger than you found it, and purer and better, and with it a name that will shine for generations. All these things are in your hands, and many more, such as the furthering of the science which you love."

"You talk like a book, Clara, but if you will show me how to do these things, or any of them, by the help of a small smattering of knowledge, extremely moderate abilities, a title floated on whisky and about £1500 a year on which to keep it up, I shall be much obliged to you."

"I will, Andrew. If you have no engagement, come to dinner to–morrow night, and we will begin, as we have talked enough for to–day."

"All right. As I have no friends, except a few medical people who are busy men, of course I have no engagements, so I'll come, and you shall expound your plans for my regeneration and that of the country. By Jove, Clara, I never knew you thought of such things—imagined that you gave your mind to dresses and dinner–parties and society, and all that empty bosh. You are coming out in a new light with a vengeance."

"You mean that you are beginning to see my humble light, such as it is, Andrew. Hitherto you have been dazzled by another which has led you into a nice trouble, and then gone out," and she nodded her little head at him gravely, adding, "Well, good–bye, dear, till to–morrow night at eight, and don't walk to the British Museum or wherever you are going, via Harley Street, for the sake of the family as well as your own."

"Clara has a deal more in her than ever I imagined," reflected Andrew to himself, as he strolled away aimlessly, "and what's more, she was awfully good to me, although she did say some hard things about Rose. Oh! Rose, Rose, to think that you should have put it into the power of others to say hard things of you, and with justice!"

Andrew dined at Cavendish Square on the following night as he, or rather Clara, had arranged, and that young lady delivered her promised lecture. It cost her a good deal of thought during the intervening hours, also some reference to text–books with which she refreshed her memory. The results, however, were satisfactory, for really she filled the rôle of fair monitress very well indeed. At times she was shy and appealed to his superior knowledge and male judgment, while once or twice she gave way to bursts of enthusiasm for which afterwards she apologized. Although somehow he seemed to have heard it all before, Andrew was much impressed and even dazzled, especially by a last coruscating effort in which she shadowed forth all that might be worked in this imperfect world by one (or two) earnest, devoted souls who chanced to be blest with health, youth, station, and financial advantages.

Andrew went home reflective and touched with a new enthusiasm. For the first time during a whole year or so he did not think of Rose throughout several consecutive hours, and when he did she only filled a bit of his mind instead of overflowing it on every side into space as was customary.

This mental attitude of his grew and gathered during several other tête–à–tête dinners, to say nothing of a course of lectures on the higher Socialism which they attended together, whereat Clara made careful notes of the best points. Truth compels this chronicler to add that when at last she reached the privacy of her chamber, Clara hurled those notes into the paper–basket and, to relieve her soul, delivered herself of the following monologue:

"I can't stand much more of this, I can't indeed! That long–haired donkey who lectures about things he does not in the least understand to a pack of vain idiots full of their own self–importance, is rapidly driving me mad. Cannot they see that if his doctrines were put in practice, within ten years civilization would cease to exist, and the world would become a lunatic asylum in which the stronger maniacs would prey upon the weaker imbeciles until all were destroyed, or some sane people rose up to rule them? How can Andrew swallow such stuff? If he does really swallow it, which I doubt. Well, if so, it is only a phase. Still, this business must come to a head, one way or another, since not for him or anyone else can I endure more of those lectures. Once I am married the word Socialism shall be taboo in my house, or I will know the reason why."

The long–suffering Clara, as it happened, was not called upon to take further notes about the regeneration of mankind by help of the newest nostrums which involved, incidentally, the seizure of everybody's property for the benefit of everybody else. For it came about that as Andrew walked towards Justice Street after his very next dinner at Cavendish Square, he was aware, it might almost be said painfully aware, that in some strange and nebulous way he had become engaged to Clara.

He tried to recall exactly how it happened. There had been the usual dissertation on what might be done in the world, and it was agreed that money would be necessary to make a beginning. He had remarked that so far as he was concerned the filthy lucre was lacking, and Clara answered with a sigh that she had more than she knew what to do with. Thereon he had suggested that she should take the field, to which the reply was that one weak and lonely woman could not attempt this great adventure, though if he were with her (there he remembered that she had sighed and looked down) it might be different.

"Then we had better get married," he said, by way of a joke.

"Do you mean it, Andrew? No, that's impertinent, for you would not have said it if you did not. You are not a man who would jest with a woman on such a solemn matter."

"Of course not," he had replied feebly. "I hadn't really considered the business much, but since it has been mooted, do you think you could take me as a husband, Clara? You know my unhappy story, and it is my duty to beg you to bear it in mind before you answer."

"Yes, I know, Andrew, and I give it weight. But mutual trust and strong affection based upon esteem and a common purpose in life will outwear any passion for one who, you must forgive me for saying, has proved herself not to be worthy. I do not fear to put myself in competition with such a woman, whatever advantages she may have over me," and she held out her hands.

After this there was nothing to be done except take them and imprint a timid embrace upon Clara's cool forehead.

Then it was all over, and having returned the embrace, she had told him that he had better go away and give her time to compose herself, returning to lunch upon the morrow. So he went—to tell the truth, with no great reluctance, doubtless because he also needed to compose himself. Why, when his mind should be so very differently occupied, oh! why could he think of nothing save the faithless and passionate Rose (for such to him she was, or seemed to be) seated on the sofa at Red Hall with eyes that said, "Take me, for I am thine"?