Mischance
i
Twelve days later, in the evening, Hilda stood by the bedside of Sarah Gailey in the basement room of No. 59 Preston Street. There was a bright fire in the grate, and in front of the fire a middle-aged doctor was cleansing the instrument which he had just employed to inject morphia into Sarah’s exhausted body. Hilda’s assumption that the ageing woman had telegraphed for her on inadequate grounds had proved to be quite wrong.
Upon entering the house on that Thursday night, Hilda, despite the anxious pale face of the new servant who had waited up for her and who entreated her to see Sarah Gailey instantly, had gone first to her own room and scrawled passionately a note to Edwin, which ran: “DEAREST,— This is my address. I love you. Every bit of me is absolutely yours. Write me.—H. L.” She gave the letter to the servant to post at once. And as she gave it she had a vision of it travelling in post office, railway vans, and being sorted, and sealed up in a bag, and recovered from the bag, and scanned by the postman at Bursley, and borne up Trafalgar Road by the postman, and dropped into the letter-box at Edwin’s house, and finally seized by Edwin; and of it pleasing him intensely,—for it was a good letter, and she was proud of it because she knew that it was characteristic.
And then, with her mind freed, she had opened the door of Sarah’s bedroom. Sarah was unquestionably very ill. Sarah had been quite right in telegraphing so peremptorily to Hilda; and if she had not so telegraphed she would have been quite wrong. On the previous day she had been sitting on the cold new oilcloth of the topmost stairs, minutely instructing a maid in the craft of polishing banisters. And the next morning an attack of acute sciatica had supervened. For a trifling indiscretion Sarah was thus condemned to extreme physical torture. Hilda had found her rigid on the bed. She suffered the severest pain in the small of the back and all down the left leg. Her left knee was supported on pillows, and the bed-clothes were raised away from it, for it could tolerate no weight whatever. The doctor, who had been and gone, had arranged a system of fomentation and hot-water bottles surpassing anything in even Sarah’s experience. And there Sarah lay, not feverish but sweating with agony, terrified to move, terrified to take a deep breath, lest the disturbance of the muscles might produce consequences beyond her strength to endure. She was in no danger of death. She could talk. She could eat and drink. Her pulse was scarcely quickened. But she was degraded and humiliated by mere physical anguish to the condition of a brute. This was her lot in life. All through that first night Hilda stayed with her, trying to pretend that Sarah was a woman, and in the morning she had assumed control of the house.
She had her secret to console her. It remained a secret because there was no one to whom she could relate it. Sarah had no ear for news unconnected with her malady. And indeed to tell Sarah, as Sarah was, would have been to carry callousness to the point of insult. And so Hilda, amid her enormous labours and fatigue, had lived with her secret, which, from being a perfumed delight, turned in two days to something subtly horrible, to something that by its horror prevented her from writing to Edwin aught but the briefest missives. She had existed from hour to hour, from one minute apprehensively to the next, day and night, hardly sleeping, devoured inwardly by a fear at once monstrous and simple, at once convincing and incredible. As for the letter which mentally she had composed a hundred times to Edwin, and which she owed to him, it had become fantastic and then inconceivable to her.
ii
One of the new servants entered the room and handed a letter to Hilda, and left the room and shut the door. The envelope was addressed “Miss Lessways, 59 Preston Street, Brighton,” in Edwin Clayhanger’s beautiful handwriting. Every evening came thus a letter, which he had posted in Bursley on the previous day. Hilda thought: “Will this contain another reproach at my irregularity? I can’t bear it, if it does.” And she gazed at the handwriting, and in particular at her own name, and her own name seemed to be the name of somebody else, of some strange young woman. She felt dizzy.... The door of Sarah’s wardrobe was ajar, and, in the mirror of it, Hilda could see herself obscurely, a black-robed strange young woman, with untidy hair and white cheeks and huge, dark, staring heavy eyes, with pouches beneath them. The image wavered in the mirror. She thought: “Here it is again, this awful feeling! Surely I am not going to faint!” She could hear Sarah’s sighing breath: she could hear the singing of the shaded gas-flame. She turned her gaze away from the mirror, and saw Sarah’s grey head inadvertently nodding, as it always nodded. Then the letter slipped out of her hand. She glanced down at the floor, in pursuit of it: the floor was darkly revolving. She thought: “Am I really fainting this time? I mustn’t faint. I’ve got to arrange about that bacon to-night and—oh, lots of things! Sarah is not a bit better. And I must sit with her until she gets off to sleep.” Her legs trembled, and she was terrorized by extraordinary novel sensations of insecurity. “Oh!” she murmured weakly.
iii
“You’ve only fainted,” said the doctor in a low voice.
She perceived, little by little, that she was lying flat on the floor at the foot of Sarah’s bed, and that he was kneeling beside her. The bed threw a shadow on them both, but she could see his benevolent face, anxious and yet reassuring, rather clearly.
“What?” she whispered, in feeble despair. She felt that her resistance was definitely broken.
From higher up, at the level of the hidden bed, came the regular plaintive respiration of Sarah Gailey.
“You must take care of yourself better than this,” said the doctor. “Perhaps this is a day when you ought to be resting.”
She answered, resigned.
“No, it’s not that. I believe I’m going to have a child. You must...” She stopped.
“Oh,” said the doctor, with discretion. “Is that it?”
Strange, how the direct words would create a new situation! She had not told the doctor that she had been through the ceremony of marriage, and had been victimized. She had told him nothing but the central and final thought in her mind. And lo! the new situation was brought into being, and the doctor was accepting it! He was not emitting astounded ‘buts—!’ Her directness had made all possible ‘buts’ seem ridiculous and futile, and had made the expression of curiosity seem offensive.
She lay on the floor impassive. She was no longer horrified by expectancy.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we must see. I think you can sit up now, can’t you?”
Three-quarters of an hour afterwards, she went into Sarah’s room alone. She was aware of no emotion whatever. She merely desired, as a professional nurse might have desired, to see if Sarah slept. Sarah was not sleeping. She moaned, as she moaned continually when awake. Hilda bent over her trembling head whose right side pressed upon the pillow.
“How queer,” thought Hilda, “how awful, that she didn’t even hear what I said to him! It will almost kill her when she does know.”
Sarah’s eyes blinked. Without stirring, without shifting her horizontal, preoccupied gaze from the wall, she muttered peevishly:
“What’s that you were saying about going to have a child?”
Startled, Hilda moved back a little from the bed.
“The doctor says there’s no doubt I am,” Hilda answered coldly.
“How queer!” Sarah said. “I quite thought—but of course a girl like you are couldn’t be sure. I should like another biscuit. But I don’t want the Osbornes—the others.” She resumed her moaning.
iv
On the following Saturday morning—rather more than a fortnight after her engagement to Edwin Clayhanger—Hilda came out of the kitchen of No. 59 Preston Street, and shut the door on a nauseating, malodorous mess of broken food and greasy plates, in the midst of which two servants were noisily gobbling down their late breakfast, and disputing. With a frown of disgust on her face, she looked into Sarah Gaile............