His landlady, and the neighbours who were at leisure to observe him when he went out for his two hours’ walk in the afternoon, took him for an old gentleman of sixty-five or so. He no longer held himself upright, and when out of doors seldom raised his eyes from the ground; grey streaks had begun to brindle his hair; his face grew yellower and more deeply furrowed. Of his personal appearance, even of cleanliness, he became neglectful, and occasionally it happened that he lay in bed all through the morning, reading, dozing, or in a state of mental vacuity.
It was long since he had seen his relative, the sprightly widow; but he had heard from her. On the point of leaving England for her summer holiday, Mrs. Luke sent him a few lines, urging him, in the language of the world, to live more sensibly, and let his wife ‘have her head’ now and then; it would be better for both of them. Then followed the time of woe, and for many weeks he gave no thought to Mrs. Luke. But close upon the end of the year he received one day a certain society journal, addressed in a hand he knew to the house at Herne Hill. In it was discoverable, marked with a red pencil, the following paragraph.
‘Among the English who this year elected to take their repose and recreation at Trouville there was no more brilliant figure than Mrs. Luke Widdowson. This lady is well known in the monde where one never s’ennuie; where smart people are gathered together, there is the charming widow sure to be seen. We are able to announce that, before leaving Trouville, Mrs. Widdowson had consented to a private engagement with Capt. William Horrocks — no other, indeed, than “Captain Bill,” the universal favourite, so beloved by hostesses as a sure dancing man. By the lamented death of his father, this best of good fellows has now become Sir William, and we understand that his marriage will be celebrated after the proper delays. Our congratulations!’
Subsequently arrived a newspaper with an account of the marriage. Mrs. Luke was now Lady Horrocks: she had the title desired of her heart.
Another two months went by, and there came a letter — readdressed, like the other communications, at the post office — in which the baronet’s wife declared herself anxious to hear of her friends. She found they had left Herne Hill; if this letter reached him, would not Edmund come and see her at her house in Wimpole Street?
Misery of solitude, desire for a woman’s sympathy and counsel, impelled him to use this opportunity, little as it seemed to promise. He went to Wimpole Street and had a very long private talk with Lady Horrocks, who, in some way he could not understand, had changed from her old self. She began frivolously, but in rather a dull, make-believe way; and when she heard that Widdowson had parted from his wife, when a few vague, miserable words had suggested the domestic drama so familiar to her observation, she at once grew quiet, sober, sympathetic, as if really glad to have something serious to talk about.
‘Now look here, Edmund. Tell the whole story from the first. You’re the sort of man to make awful blunders in such a case as this. Just tell me all about it. I’m not a bad sort, you know, and I have troubles of my own — I don’t mind telling you so much. Women make fools of themselves — well, never mind. Just tell me about the little girl, and see if we can’t square things somehow.’
He had a struggle with himself, but at length narrated everything, often interrupted by shrewd questions.
‘No one writes to you?’ the listener finally inquired.
‘I am expecting to hear from them,’ was Widdowson’s answer, as he sat in the usual position, head hanging forward and hands clasped between his knees.
‘To hear what?’
‘I think I shall be sent for.’
‘Sent for? To make it up?’
‘She is going to give birth to a child.’
Lady Horrocks nodded twice thoughtfully, and with a faint smile.
‘How did you find this out?’
‘I have known it long enough. Her sister Virginia told me before they went away. I had a suspicion all at once, and I forced her to tell me.’
‘And if you are sent for shall you go?’
Widdowson seemed to mutter an affirmative, and added —
‘I shall hear what she has to tell me, as she promised.’
‘Is it — is it possible —?’
The lady’s question remained incomplete. Widdowson, though he understood it, vouchsafed no direct answer. Intense suffering was manifest in his face, and at length he spoke vehemently.
‘Whatever she tells me — how can I believe it? When once a woman has lied how can she ever again be believed? I can’t be sure of anything.’
‘All that fibbing,’ remarked Lady Horrocks, ‘has an unpleasant look. No denying it. She got entangled somehow. But I think you had better believe that she pulled up just in time.’
‘I have no love for her left,’ he went on in a despairing voice. ‘It all perished in those frightful days. I tried hard to think that I still loved her. I kept writing letters — but they meant nothing — or they only meant that I was driven half crazy by wretchedness. I had rather we lived on as we have been doing. It’s miserable enough for me, God knows; but it would be worse to try and behave to her as if I could forget everything. I know her explanation won’t satisfy me. Whatever it is I shall still suspect her. I don’t know that the child is mine. It may be. Perhaps as it grows up there will be a likeness to help me to make sure. But what a life! Every paltry trifle will make me uneasy; and if I discovered any fresh deceit I should do something terrible. You don’t know how near I was —’
He shuddered and hid his face.
‘The Othello business won’t do,’ said Lady Horrocks not unkindly. ‘You couldn’t have gone on together, of course; you had to part for a time. Well, that’s all over; take it as something that couldn’t be helped. You were behaving absurdly, you know; I told you plainly; I guessed there’d be trouble. You oughtn’t to have married at all, that’s the fact; it would be better for most of us if we kept out of it. Some marry for a good reason, some for a bad, and mostly it all comes to the same in the end. But there, never mind. Pull yourself together, dear boy. It’s all nonsense about not caring for her. Of course you’re eating your heart out for want of her. And I’ll tell you what I think: it’s very likely Monica was pulled up just in time by discovering — you understand? — that she was more your wife than any one else’s. Something tells me that’s how it was. Just try to look at it in that way. If the child lives she’ll be different. She has sowed her wild oats — why shouldn’t a woman as well as a man? Go down to Clevedon and forgive her. You’re an honest man, and it isn’t every woman — never mind. I could tell you stories about people — but you wouldn’t care to hear them. Just take things with a laugh — we all have to. Life’s as you take it: all gloom or moderately shiny.’
With much more to the same solacing effect. For the time Widdowson was perchance a trifle comforted; at all events, he went away with a sense of gratitude to Lady Horrocks. And when he had left the house he remembered that not even a civil formality with regard to Sir William had fallen from his lips. But Sir William’s wife, for whatever reason, had also not once mentioned the baronet’s name.
Only a few days passed before Widdowson received the summons he was expecting. It came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to his wife; not a word of news added. At the time of its arrival he was taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether he could get to Paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would enable him to reach Clevedon that night. He managed it, with only two or three minutes to spare.
Not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his thoughts on the end of the journey. An inexpressible repugnance then affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any injury which might prevent his going to Monica at such a time. Often, in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had confused and darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. If the child, perhaps already born, were in truth his, it must be very long before he could regard it with a shadow of paternal interest; uncertainty, to which he was condemned, would in all likelihood make it an object of aversion to him as long as he lived.
He was at Bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a slow train, which by ten o’clock brought him to Yatton, the little junction for Clevedon. It was a fine starry night, but extremely cold. For the few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about the platform. His chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go well with Monica. Whether he could believe what she had to tell him or not, it would be worse if she were to die before he could hear her exculpation. The anguish of remorse would seize upon him.
Alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped out. No cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and hastened with all speed in the direction that he remembered. But very soon the crossways had confused him. As he met no one whom he could ask to direct him, he had to knock at a door. Streaming with perspiration, he came at length within sight of his own house. A church clock was striking eleven.
Alice and Virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was opened; they beckoned him into a room.
‘Is it over?’ he asked, staring from one to the other with his dazzled eyes.
‘At four this afternoon,’ answered Alice, scarce able to articulate. ‘A little girl.’
‘She had to have chloroform,’ said Virginia, who looked a miserable, lifeless object, and shook like one in an ague.
‘And all’s well?’
‘We think so — we hope so,’ they stammered together.
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