Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XIII The Holy Estate

Andrew's engagement followed a perfectly normal course. When once she had seen to its accurate publication in the proper quarters, and had supplied the society papers with a few paragraphs suitable to the social importance of the persons concerned, Clara, dreading more Socialistic lectures, also the return of Mrs. Black who was, she had ascertained, on a holiday, remarked that town was hot, and that she could no longer repress her longings for sylvan shades.

"Literally," she said, "I dream of the country and green leaves and dew upon the grass and the gold of the ripening crops. You see, I was born there."

"Yes," answered Andrew, "but I didn't know you had ever lived there since. Where are you going to?"

Clara, who had not made up her mind on this point, reflected for a moment and then suggested Scarborough.

"Scarborough! You don't call that country, do you, dear? Why, it is a fashionable watering–place with miles of sea front."

"I remember a green hill and some gardens, Andrew. But if you don't like Scarborough, what other place would you prefer? I am quite willing to fall in with your tastes."

"My tastes, dear! Why, I'm not going to the country. I've just come back from it. I'm going to do some work at my hospital, where, as the big men are away, they are quite willing to take me on for a bit—you see, I was one of their house surgeons for a few weeks. But why don't you try Atterton itself? The north of Yorkshire is rural enough for anybody."

"Really, Andrew, you are foolish. How can I possibly go to Atterton, which is your place, without you, or with you either, for the matter of that, before we are married? And as for working at a hospital, I hoped that you would accompany me somewhere, living in a different part of the town or village, so that I might be able to see something of you, as is usual in our circumstances."

"Oh!" answered Andrew, without any particular enthusiasm, for he had set his heart upon that hospital work. "I had forgotten the engagement business, and I suppose you can't go to Atterton alone. Also, as the nearest neighbour is five miles off, you might be rather dull. It almost seems as though the best thing to do would be for us to get married first. Then I suppose we could go together."

Upon hearing this, Clara's first impulse was to exclaim "Absurd!" Quickly, however, she reflected that Andrew's idea, or rather random suggestion, had points. To begin with, it would finally rule out Mrs. Black, of whom she lived in some dread. Also so hurried a marriage would have a romantic air. A few hints in suitable directions would suffice to circulate an attractive story of a lifelong attachment that had begun when first their cradles were set side by side, now made possible of fulfilment by the death of an obstructive relative. Of this opportunity, naturally enough, immediate advantage had been taken by two ardent lovers. Then the whole thing would be so unusual; a quiet but carefully advertised autumn marriage when people were out of town (for, after all, reporters never went out of town). No lists of wedding presents (because probably these would not be forthcoming in sufficient numbers at such short notice)—altogether something quite new for people in their position.

"Of course, love," she said, looking down shyly, "that would be delightful, and though I see great inconveniences and it is usual to wait longer, as you are set on it and I know that men hate being engaged, well, dearest, I should like to give you your wish and myself with it, because, as you know, it is you I think of in everything."

"That's awfully good of you. Really, Clara, you are a perfect angel to sacrifice yourself on the altar in this way, or rather at it," replied Andrew with high–sounding, if hollow enthusiasm. "Well, if you will arrange the business and tell me what day you fix, I'll be ready."

"To share in the sacrifice at the altar," suggested Clara with gentle sarcasm, for after all she was a woman and felt in her heart that something was lacking. Indeed, although her imagination was not active, at the moment she did wonder whether, if the second–rate Rose Black had been concerned and it were a question of his sudden marriage to her, Andrew might not have been more demonstrative in language, or otherwise. However, having made up her mind to this step, she must take him as he was and make the best of things. After all, as a woman of the world she was well aware that the holy state of matrimony was one that has imperfections, since if marriages are made in heaven, they have to be carried through on earth.

After a brief interchange of modified endearments, Andrew departed to attend some particular operation at the hospital, to which the great surgeon Clinton, who it may be remembered had approved of an heroic effort of his own in the same line, had especially invited his attendance.

"Very well, dear," he said, as he vanished, "I leave everything to you, as you are so much more competent than I am, and I'll order a new frock–coat to–morrow, for that is the thing to be married in, isn't it? And now I must be off to see that poor woman operated on. I expect to learn a great deal from her case."

If Andrew would attend a little more to women's hearts and a little less to the rest of their interior economy, it might be better for us both in the long run, reflected Clara rather bitterly as the door closed behind him. Really, if he had been hiring a new housemaid, he could not take things more coolly.

Still, being a lady of determination, having once, after ample thought, put her hand to the plough, any such deficiencies on the part of the steed she had to steer did not give her pause. After all, she remembered, they were more apparent than real, and once she had him in the traces she would know how to drive a straight furrow.

So it came about that in due course this wealthy and distinguished pair were united in the bond that is so easy to tie and so extremely difficult to loose. After all, although town was rather empty, the event proved fashionable and as there was little else at the moment with which to fill them, the notices in the papers were full and long. Also, quite a number of presents arrived, most of them sent by people of whom Andrew had never even heard, an the church was filled with sightseers, while Clara's bridesmaids were young ladies of the most aristocratic birth. (Andrew's best man, it may be remarked, was a fellow–student from the hospital, whose birth was not aristocratic.)

As they were walking down the aisle after the conclusion of the ceremony, Andrew's glance, wandering vaguely over the sea of unfamiliar faces, suddenly fell upon one that was familiar enough, namely, that of Rose. She smiled and nodded to him as though to convey good wishes, but he noted that she was white and that her features were drawn as though with pain; also that she looked as though she had been crying. This fleeting vision upset him very much; indeed, he closed his eyes to be rid of the sight of it, with the result that he blundered into his bride and trod upon her lovely dress which was torn, much to her annoyance.

Such was his last meeting with Rose. That chapter in his life was closed. It seemed an empty, aimless chapter; yet it was not so, because of its effects on him, to whom it gave so much pain and was the cause of such bitter disillusionment.

Here it may be added that immediately after Andrew's return to London, subsequent to their honeymoon in the north, on the placard of an evening paper he saw printed as a minor item of news, "Sudden death of well–known physician." Something made him buy the paper and search until he found a paragraph headed: "Inquest on Dr. Somerville Black. Verdict of death by misadventure from overdose of veronal."

The paragraph told the rest of the story. According to the evidence of Mrs. Black, her husband slept very badly and, as she believed, took narcotics. One morning she was called to his room, which was in a different part of the house to her own, and found him dead with a bottle of veronal tablets beside him. That was all she had to say about the occurrence, except that they lived on affectionate terms and that under his will she was left joint heiress with his daughter, Mrs. Watson, to his large estate. Then came the verdict, and so this "fashionable consultant" vanished from the world and was forgotten.

Andrew was staggered both by the death of Black, to whom he was attached, and at the thought that if he had waited a little he might after all have married Rose. And yet, did he wish to marry Rose? He could not tell; all he knew was that if they had both been free he would have married her, because, well, just because she was Rose, that Rose whom he had trusted and who had wrecked his life for money. For after all, what creature is there quite so forgiving as a man, especially if the first affections of his youth are involved?

For the rest, to finish the tale of Rose, within a year she married again, choosing as her second husband a large, fresh–faced and peculiarly bucolic person of almost inconceivable stupidity, a baronet who shot two days a week and hunted three, and possessed great estates in the south of England. By this excellent man she became the mother of a considerable family, and so ends the Book of Rose.

If either of them could have been induced to tell the truth upon the matter, both Andrew and Clara would have confessed that the honeymoon at Atterton did not attain even to their separate modest expectations. To begin with, the house was huge and gorgeous, at least £100,000 of the profits of West's whisky had been spent upon its evolution from a quiet country gentleman's residence into a palace not in the best of taste. Then there were few neighbours, and Clara, always anxious to do the right thing, felt that she ought not to ask a party to assist at the first flowering of her nuptial joys. Therefore she preferred that these should blush unseen. Also, it rained persistently for a whole month, which made the river unfishable and for shooting Andrew did not care.

So he wandered about through those gilded chambers, which included a great library almost without books, reflecting that if he could, he would burn the place down, and at any rate that he never wanted to see it again. Also he purchased a pair of tame rabbits and some pigeons, but just as these became interesting it was time to return to town and he had to give them away to an under–gardener. In fact, there was nothing left to do except converse with Clara, which soon proved a somewhat unexhilirating employment, since her enthusiasm for those subjects that attracted him, first lessened, and then evaporated. Now it is difficult to sit opposite to a lady whom you are expected to call "dearest" at every third sentence, and talk mostly of the weather, especially when this remains of a continual badness, in the intervals of pretending to consume elaborate and wonderfully cooked meals which you do not want.

Somehow he never seemed to get any nearer to Clara, and after her first efforts, which involved the study of Socialistic works which she had now burned because she hated them so much, she never tried to get any nearer to him. Andrew was Andrew and she was Clara, just as the North Pole and the Equator are different places, and there was an end of it, though on the whole she was glad that she had made the marriage, since he was quite an amenable person, always willing to let her do what she wanted, so long as he was not bothered.

So it came about that though Andrew lamented the rabbits, which he had named Dr. Watson and Arabella, neither of them wept when the time came to depart from those stately halls in the company of twelve servants. The only trouble was that Andrew hated the mausoleum in Cavendish Square even more than he did Atterton, where at least there were trees and flowers and all the other sights and sounds of Nature. Still, with some astuteness he managed to mitigate the terrors of the former establishment by keeping on his rooms in Justice Street upon the plea that they were handy to his hospital, where he had arranged to work upon bacteriological research. At Justice Street accordingly he lunched, or at any rate took tea most days in the congenial company of Mrs. Josky, and sometimes of certain medical friends.

Once Clara, who had conceived doubts about this arrangement, descended upon one of these tea–parties, but when she found three earnest young men engaged in examining a particularly unpleasant–looking preparation from the human body and all talking at the same time, with Mrs. Josky and Laurie playing the part of admiring audience in the background, she retreated in haste and never repeated the experiment. Andrew, she reflected, was mad and there was an end of it, since his insanity took a harmless form. Even after she discovered that on certain occasions, when she was on visits to fashionable friends whither he excused himself from accompanying her, he was in the habit of sleeping at Justice Street, she did not remonstrate. If he liked to spend his week–ends in that fashion, what was there to say?

Soon after their marriage a great opportunity arose for the betterment of the Whitechapel slum population, by the building of an enormous block of up–to–date workmen's dwellings upon an excellent site of which an option had been secured. Needless to say this scheme was introduced to Andrew's notice by his old friends, Dr. Watson and Arabella, the latter having become even more enthusiastic on such matters than her husband. Indeed, her enthusiasm had a very practical side, since she proposed to subscribe £20,000 towards its expense out of the private fortune which she had just inherited from her father.

Andrew was much interested for here seemed a chance of doing some real good, only unfortunately he was not in a position to find the £100,000 which was absolutely necessary to set the enterprise upon its feet. He bethought him of Clara and of their pre–nuptial conversations on such matters. Now she had an opportunity of putting her views into practice, which doubtless she would be glad to take. That very night he expounded the business to her with an animation that had become unusual in him, keeping her up, to her great annoyance, for an hour after her usual bedtime in order that she might listen to him and examine the plans. Also he pointed out to her that really it would not matter to her if she had £100,000 more or less, a statement at which she opened her eyes very wide indeed. In the end she rose, saying that she was tired but would make inquiries and tell him what she thought.

Clara did make inquiries through her lawyers and house–agent, and two days later informed Andrew very plainly that nothing would induce her to touch the business.

"I am advised," she said, "that the whole affair is visionary and totally uneconomic. The £100,000 you wish me to invest would probably be lost, or at the least would earn no income. Further, the people who have conceived the idea are Socialistic cranks with whom no sensible person would have dealings."

There was something in her tone that annoyed Andrew, who in his open fashion did not attempt to conceal his irritation.

"You disappoint me, Clara," he said. "I had hoped that you would not look at the thing from the point of pounds, shillings and pence, but rather from that of raising and bettering your fellow–creatures, as with your great resources it is a duty to do. West's whisky has done them so much harm, that some reparation seems to be owing to them," he added sarcastically.

Now Clara grew cross in her turn, for if there was one thing that angered her, it was Andrew's constant allusions to the fiery source of the family fortunes.

"Then, my dear Andrew," she said bitterly, "may I suggest that you should make what contribution you like to this wild–cat venture out of your private resources, which, I may add, you also owe to West's whisky, as indirectly you do your rank."

He was deeply hurt and left the room, but the nett result of the affair was that never again did he ask Clara to subscribe a single farthing to any philanthropic object. He gave what he could out of his own pocket, often leaving himself with barely enough money for his personal needs, but from his wife he would take nothing, even if she offered to contribute, which she did sometimes as a matter of policy. The result was that although he seemed to live in splendour, Andrew was really a poor man, although Clara charged herself with the upkeep of their costly establishments. Heartily did he wish that he were poorer still and allowed to earn a modest livelihood by the practice of his profession. But this Clara would not suffer, because she considered it derogatory to his rank and an indirect reflection upon herself.

Soon she became very outspoken on all these points, telling him that it was his duty to make the most of his position. When he replied that he did not care about his position, which neither he nor anyone else had done anything to earn, she answered that at least she did care and that if he would do nothing for his own sake, at least he might do something for hers.

"What?" he inquired.

"Attend the House of Lords regularly, of course, and make yourself an authority on some subject, which, it does not matter. Heaven knows it should be easy enough, for you have brains and powers of memory while most peers are very stupid people and as idle as they are stupid. You have a chance to your hand, Andrew, which thousands would be glad to buy at the price of ten years of life, and it makes me wild to see you letting it slip through your fingers."

"All right," he said, "I'll try, though I hate the place which I don't approve of in theory, who think that there shouldn't be any lords. Nor do I know anyone there."

So he did try, taking his seat on an Opposition bench, since a Unionist Government was in power and he imagined himself to be a Radical. As it chanced, at about his third attendance a debate arose upon Egyptian matters, in an almost empty House. Now, when he was in Egypt, Andrew had done his best to study the conditions of the country; also he had kept up and improved his knowledge by subsequent reading. Therefore the spirit moved him to correct sundry mistakes which had been made in the course of the debate, and to deliver a strongly imperialistic speech, for it never occurred to him that in doing so he was flying straight in the face of his Party who, for their own ends, were responsible for the said misstatements. At its conclusion he was loudly cheered by the Unionists, delighted at the appearance of this Daniel come to judgment, while his remarks were received in glum silence by those about him.

As a matter of fact it was quite a good speech, since although he had never practised the art of oratory outside the walls of a hospital debating society, Andrew had some gifts that way, to which were added a sympathetic voice and appearance and a power of getting at the truth of things. At any rate, it made a considerable impression and was fully reported in the Press, where he was spoken of as a young peer of great promise. Moreover, although on this occasion he had gone against them, it was noted by the leaders of his own Party, who came to the conclusion that he was worth roping in and cultivating, lest he should stray to the other fold. The upshot of it was that in addition to those which had to do with medicine and public health, Andrew made a speciality of Empire and Colonial affairs, on which by dint of study and reading he soon became an authority, with the result that when, a while later, his Party came into power, he was offered the post of Under–Secretary for the Colonies.

Of course he wished to refuse, but here Clara put her foot down, so that in the end he found himself in office. There he did very well indeed, till a few years later an incident occurred which ended his career as a Party politician.

Its details do not in the least matter, but in their sum they amounted to this. Andrew, being authorized thereto, had passed the word of the Government upon a point connected with Labour in a certain Dependency. This decision unexpectedly caused agitation in the ranks of Labour at home and threatened the loss of many votes. Thereupon the spokesman of the Government in the other House "gave him away" in the interests of the Party, suggesting that what he had said was of his own mere motion and not a Government view. Andrew at once resigned and, although pressure was brought to bear upon him, together with hints of immediate promotion, persisted in that course. His proposed action came, or rather was brought to the ears of Clara, who intervened with all her strength. But here he was adamant, for the reserve of character which lay beneath his rather casual and nonchalant manner came into play.

He told her straight out that he would have nothing to do with people who, by making it appear that he had said the thing which was not, had cast a reflection upon his honour.

She was furious in a kind of icy fashion, for she saw her ambitions baulked by his absurd scruples, jut when they were at the point of harvest. For the first time they came to a really serious quarrel, but all the same Andrew stuck to his guns and resigned, at the same time refusing the proffer of another office and, what is more, gave his reasons in a personal statement which did his Party no good.

From this time forward his relations with Clara became somewhat strained, at any rate for a while.

For this, too, there was a further reason of an intimate and personal sort. When they had been married about eighteen months a daughter was born to them. Clara was not particularly attracted to this infant, whose appearance in the world was connected in her mind with much physical discomfort. Also she was angry because it was not a boy who could inherit the title. Andrew, on the other hand, adored the child, upon whom he poured out all the secret wealth of his starved and pent–up nature. From its first babyhood it was his joy, and when it began to speak and walk it became an obsession with him. What this little golden–haired Janet, so named after his mother, did and said and thought was the chief topic of his domestic conversation and interested him a great deal more than all the affairs of all the Empire. Again he would spend most of his spare time in her company and, when she was asleep at night, would sit at her cot–side and read by a shaded lamp. He had even been known to excuse himself from attending a great official dinner; yes, and one that was not official, that he might indulge this strange fancy.

"What do you do it for?" asked the indignant Clara, returning from some festivity alone and finding him so employed. "Is there not a nurse?"

"She likes to get off duty sometimes," replied Andrew hazily.

"And if she does, hasn't she got an under–nurse, to say nothing of all the rest of the idle creatures? I repeat—what do you do it for, especially when the child is quite well?"

"Oh! I don't know. Perhaps because it pleases me. Perhaps because in her sleep her soul talks to mine and I want to make the most of it while she is near," he replied, with a curious flash of his dark eyes.

"Really, Andrew, I think that you are going mad. Anyway, that settles me. I'll have no more children for you to make a fool of yourself over; not even to get an heir to the peerage will I go through all that suffering again."

"I never thought you would, Clara, and as for the peerage, what does it matter? West's whisky will continue."

The climax came, however, one Sunday when, walking with some very distinguished friends in the Park, suddenly Clara came upon Andrew wheeling the perambulator with not the ghost of a nurse in sight. With one hand he wheeled and with the other waved a flower in front of Janet which, crowing delightedly, she tried to catch. Clara cut him dead, nor did Andrew attempt any sign of recognition.

Unhappy, however, a motherly old Duchess who was of the company, recognized him and rushed up, calling out at the top of her high voice:

"Oh! Lord Atterton, how early Christian and delightful!"

"I don't know about its being early Christian, but it is certainly delightful, Duchess," replied Andrew in a reflective voice, as he wheeled his perambulator off down a side path, adding over his shoulder, "If you meet that nurse, tell her not to trouble. You'll know her by her red nose. Two's company, you see, and three's none."

Her Grace departed, roaring with laughter, and told the tale all over London, with the result that under the heading of "A Pretty Story about a Political Peer," presently it appeared in various journals and was even cabled to America.

After this the relations between Clara and her husband grew even more formal than before.

Here it may be well to add the sad sequel to this pure romance of parental love.

When Janet was five, and so sweet a child that Andrew could never look at her without terror, since instinct warned him that "of such are the kingdom of Heaven," he was called away for a week on some pressing matter at Atterton, to which Clara insisted he must attend in person. On his return, after a night journey, the first question he asked was as to the whereabouts of Janet, for he did not see her in her downstair playroom and the hour was earlier than that at which generally she went out.

"Oh!" said Clara, "she's in bed. Nurse said she thought she had better keep her there, as she has been a little flushed and husky for the last day or two."

"Have you had the doctor?" asked Andrew, with a sudden change of face.

"No, Nurse said she didn't think it worth while, and she is very experienced."

"Damn Nurse and her experience!" exclaimed Andrew, as thrusting past her he went upstairs.

The child heard him coming, and rose in her bed, stretching out her little arms towards him, and saying, "Dad, Dad, so glad you're back, Dad darling," in a thick voice.

He kissed her and made a rapid examination; then fetching a thermometer from his own room next door, took her temperature.

Just then Clara strolled in, saying:

"Well, she's all right, isn't she?"

"Oh! yes," he answered in a quiet voice, "or soon will be, I expect. She has diphtheria."

"Diphtheria! For goodness' sake be careful―"

"Yes, diphtheria. She caught it in those mews where one of your precious women took her when she went to see some one there, and left her to play with the children outside. Now clear out of this."

Everything possible was done, but too late. A few days later the child died. Just before she passed her mind seemed to clear, and she whispered a few words.

"I am going away, Dad darling. Somebody's fetching me. You'll come soon, won't you?"

"Yes, dearest. Promise you will wait for me."

She smiled very sweetly:

"For ever and ever, Dad. For ever and ever, Amen."

Then she died.