Mijnheer did not suggest the remedy of a fire; he, too, shared the belief that stoves should not be lighted before the appointed time; he only protested at the idea of bed. "Pooh!" he said. "Make myself an invalid with Joost away! Will you go and nurse my nose, and put plasters on my chest? Go to bed now, do you say? No, no, my dear, I will sit here; I am comfortable enough; I read my paper, I smoke my cigar; by and by, I go out to see that my barns are all safe for the night."
But at this Mevrouw gave an exclamation; the idea of his going out in such weather was terrible, she said, and she said it a good many times.
Julia bent over her work; she heard the swish of the rain on the window, the uneven sob of the fitful wind; she heard the old people talk, the husband persist, the wife protest. She did not look up; her eyes were fixed on her needle, but she hardly saw it; more plainly she saw the dark barns, the crowded shelves, the place where the blue daffodils were. She could find them with perfect ease; could choose one in the dark as easily as Mijnheer himself; she could substitute for it another, one of the common sort of the same shape and size; no one would be the wiser; even when it bloomed, with the simple yellow flower that has beautified spring woods so long, no one would know it was not a sport of nature, a throw back to the original parent. It was the simplest thing in all the world; the safest. Not that that recommended it; she would rather it had been difficult or dangerous, it would have savoured more of a fair fight and less of trickery.
Besides, such safety was nothing; anything can be made safe with care and forethought.
She caught her own name in the talk now; husband and wife were speaking lower, evidently arguing as to the propriety of asking her to go the rounds; for a moment she pretended not to hear, then she raised her head, contempt for her own weakness in her mind. It is not opportunity that makes thieves of thinking folk, and she knew it; rather it is the thief that makes opportunity, if he is up to his work. Why should she be afraid to go to the barns? She would not take the daffodil the more for going; if she meant to do it, and, through cowardice, let this opportunity slip, she would soon find another. And if she did not mean to, the proximity of the thing would not make her take it.
She put down her work. "I will lock up for you, Mijnheer; give me the keys."
He protested, and his wife protested, much more feebly, and thanked her for going the while. They gave her many directions, and told her she must put on this, that, and the other, and must be careful not to get her feet wet, and really need not to be too particular in examining all the doors. She answered them with impatient politeness, as one does who is waiting for the advent of a greater matter; she was not irritated by the trivial interruptions which came between her and the decision which was yet to be made; it was somehow so great to her that it seemed as if it could wait. At last she was off, Mijnheer's galoshes wallowing about her feet, his black-caped mackintosh thrown round her shoulders. She had neither hat nor umbrella. Mevrouw literally wailed when she started; but it made no impression, she came of the nation most indifferent to getting wet, and most-susceptible to death by consumption of any in Europe.
She slopped along in the great galoshes, her back to the lighted house now, her face to the dark barns. There they were, easily accessible, waiting for her. Was she to take one, or was she not? She did not give herself any excuse for taking it, or tell herself that one out of six was not much; or that Joost, could he know the case, would not have grudged her one of his precious bulbs. There was only one thing she admitted--it was there, and her need for it was great. With it she could pay a debt that was due, show her father an honourable man, and, seeing that the affair could always remain secret, raise herself nearer to Rawson-Clew's level. Without it she could not.
She had come to the first barn now, and, unbarring the door, went in.
Almost oppressive came the dry smell of the bulbs to her; very familiar, too, as familiar as the distorted shadows that her lantern made. Together they brought vividly to her mind the first time she went the rounds with Joost--the night when she told him she was bad, the worst person he knew. Poor Joost, he had interpreted her words his own way; she remembered very plainly what he said but two nights ago--right and wrong, honourable and dishonourable, wise and unwise, they meant the same thing to different people, the choosing of the higher, the leaving of the lower--and he believed no less of her. That belief, surely, was a thing that fought on the side of the angels? And then there was that other man, able, well-bred, intellectual, her superior, who had treated her as an equal, and so tacitly demanded that she should conform to his code of honour. And there was Johnny Gillat, poor, old round-faced Johnny, who, under his silly, shabby exterior, had somewhere, quite understood, the same code, and standard of a gentleman, and never doubted but that she had it too--surely these two, also, were on the side of the angels?
But it was not a matter of angels, neither was it a matter of this man's thought, or that. At bottom, it seemed all questions could be brought to plain terms--What do I think? I, alone in the big, black, contradictory world. Julia realised it, and asked herself what it mattered if he, if they, if all the world called it wrong?
What--pitiless, logical question--was wrong? Why should to take in one case be so called, and in another not? By whose word, and by what law was a thing thus, and why was she to submit to it?
She faced the darkness, the lantern at her feet, her back against the shelves, and asked herself the world-old question; and, like many before her, found no answer, because logic, merciless solvent of faith and hope and law, never answers its own riddles. Only, as she stood there, there rose up before her mind's eye the face of Joost, with its simple gravity, its earnest, trusting blue eyes. She saw it, and she saw the humble dignity with which he had shown her his six bulbs. Not as a proud possessor shows a treasure, rather as an adept shares some secret of his faith or art; so had he placed them in her power, given her a chance to so use this trust. She almost groaned aloud as she recalled him, and recalled, sorely against her will, a horrible tale she had once read, of a Brahmin who murdered a little child for her worthless silver anklets. Joost was a veritable child to her, powerless before her ability, trusting in her good faith, a child indeed, even if he had not placed his secret in her grasp. And it was he--this child--that she, with her superior strength, was going to rob!
She shivered. Why was he not Rawson-Clew? Why could not he take better care of himself and his possessions? She could have done it with a light heart then; there would have been a semblance of fight in it; but now--now it could not be done. Logic, the pitiless solvent, has no action on those old long-transmitted instincts; it may argue with, but it cannot destroy, those vague yearnings of the natural man towards righteousness. Julia did not argue, she only obeyed; she did not know why.
She picked up the lantern, and moved to go; as she did so, the barn door, lightly fastened, blew open. A rush of rain and wind swept in, the smell of the wet earth, and the sight of the tossing trees, and massed clouds that fled across the sky. For a moment she stood and looked, hearing the wild night voices, the sob of the wet wind, the rustle and mutter of the trees--those primitive inarticulate things that do not lie. And in her heart she felt very weary of shams and pretences, very hungry for the rest of reality and truth. She turned away, and made the round of the barns systematically, and without haste; she did not hurry past the resting-place of the blue daffodils, they were safe from her now and always.
It was not till some weeks later that she saw, and not then without also seeing it was quite impossible to disprove the proposition, that there was something grimly absurd in the idea which had possessed her that night--the thought of stealing to prove a lie, and acting dishonourably to pay a debt of honour. At the time she did not think at all, she acted on instinct only. Thank God for those dumb instincts, making for righteousness, which, in spite of theologians, are implanted somewhere in the heart of man.
So she went the rounds, fastened the barns, and came out of the last one, locking the door after her. Outside, she stood a second, the rain falling upon her bare head, the wind blowing her cloak about her. And she did not feel triumphant or victorious, nor reluctant and contemptuous of her weakness; only somehow apart and alone, and very, very tired.
CHAPTER VIII
POOFERCHJES AND JEALOUSY
The Polkingtons were launching out; not ostentatiously with expensive entertainments or anything striking, but in all small ways, scarcely noticeable except in general effect, but none the less expensive. They could not afford it; the past nine months had been very difficult, first the Captain's unfortunate misuse of the cheque, then Violet's engagement and the necessary entertainment that it involved, and then her wedding. Financially they were in a very bad way, but that did not prevent them spending--or owing--in a rather lordly fashion. Mrs.
Polkington with one daughter married, and another safely out of the way, seemed determined to take the field well with the remaining one.
Cherie was quite ready to second the effort, indeed, she was the instigator; she was not only the prettiest of the sisters, but also the most ease loving, and though ambitious, less clever than the others, and a great deal more short-sighted. She had for some time ceased to be content with the position at Marbridge and the society there; she wanted to be recognised by the "county." This desire had been growing of late, for there had been a very eligible and attractive bachelor addition to that charmed circle, and he had more than once looked admiration her way. She and her mother went to work well and spared neither time nor trouble; not much result could be expected during the summer months, little done then except get ready--an expensive proceeding. It was when September brought people home for the partridge shooting and October's pheasants kept them there till hunting began, that they expected their success and the return for their outlay, and they were quite content to wait for it.
Their plans and doings were naturally not confided to any one, not even Julia; she heard seldom from Marbridge; the family feelings were of a somewhat utilitarian order, based largely on mutual benefit. She wrote now and then; she happened to do so on the day after the one on which she did not take the blue daffodil; and she mentioned in this letter that it was possible she should be home again soon. Seeing that she had decided the daffodil was unobtainable she saw little reason for staying longer; this of course she did not mention when she wrote.
Somewhat to her surprise she got an almost immediate reply to her letter.
It would not suit Mrs. Polkington and Cherie to have Julia back soon at all; it is always easier to swim socially with one daughter than two, especially if the second is not good-looking. Also, Julia, cautious, long-headed and capable, was certain to criticise their proceedings and do her best to interfere with them. She would be wrong in her judgments, of course, and they right; they were sure of that, but they did not want the trouble of attempting to convert her, and anyhow, they felt they could do much better without her, and Mrs.
Polkington wrote and intimated as much politely. She gave several excellent reasons, all of which were perfectly transparent to Julia, though that did not matter, seeing that she was sufficiently hurt in her feelings, or her pride, to at once determine to fulfil her mother's wishes and do anything rather than go where she was not wanted.
There was not much said of the plans and doings in Mrs. Polkington's letter, but a little crept in almost without the writer's knowledge, enough to rouse Julia's suspicions. Why, she asked herself, was her mother suddenly enamoured with the beauty of Chippendale furniture?
How did she know that Sturt's (the tailor's) prices were lower for costumes this season? And in what way had she become aware what the Ashton's last parlour-maid thought, if she had not engaged that young woman for her own service? Julia was at once uneasy and disgusted; the last alike with the proceedings themselves and the attempt to deceive her about them. And another letter she received at the same time did not make her any more satisfied; it was from Johnny Gillat, about as silly and uninforming a letter as ever man wrote, but it contained one piece of information. Mr. Gillat was going to have a great excitement in the early autumn--Captain Polkington was coming to London, perhaps for as long as three months. Johnny did not know why; he thought perhaps to have some treatment for his rheumatism; Mrs. Polkington had arranged it. Julia did know why, and the short-sightedness of the policy roused her contempt. To thus put the family drawback out of the way, and leave him to his own devices and Mr. Gillat's care, seemed to her as unwise towards him as it was unkind to Johnny. She would have written that minute to expostulate with her mother if she had not just then been called away.
These two disturbing letters arrived on the day that Joost came home from Germany, after the English mail for the day had gone. Julia comforted herself with this last fact when she was called before she had time to write to her mother; she could write when she went to bed that night; the letter would go just as soon as if it was written now; so she went to answer Mevrouw's summons to admire the carved crochet hook her son had brought her as a present from Germany. Joost had brought several small presents besides the crochet hook, a pipe for his father, and two other trifles--a small vase and a photograph of a plant which was the pride of the Berlin gardens that year--an aloe, no yucca, but one of the true rare blooming sort, in full flower. Julia was asked to take her choice of these two; she chose the photograph because it seemed to her much more characteristic of the giver, and also because it was easier to put away. She had no idea of pleasing Joost by so doing; to tell the truth she hardly felt desirous of pleasing him, for though she had refrained from taking his blue daffodil and was in a way satisfied that she had done so, she did not feel exactly grateful to him for unconsciously standing between her and it, from which some may conclude that virtue was not an indigenous plant with Julia.
When Denah arrived after dinner she was given the vase. Before Joost went away she had expressed in his hearing a wish that she had something from Berlin; she had said it rather pronouncedly as one might express a desire for a bear from the Rocky Mountains, or a ruby from Burmah; she could hardly have received one of those with more enthusiasm than she did the vase. She admired it from every point of view and thanked Joost delightedly; the delight, however, was a little modified when Mijnheer let slip the fact that Julia also had a present from Berlin.
"Have you?" she asked suspiciously. "What is it? Show me."
Julia fetched the photograph and exhibited it with as little elation as possible. Denah did not admire it greatly, she said she much preferred her own present.
At this Joost smiled a little; it was only what he expected, and Julia began tactfully to talk about the beauties of the vase; but Denah was not to be put off her main point.
"Do you not prefer mine; really and truly, would you not rather it had been yours?" she asked.
Julia could have slipped out of the answer quite easily; the Polkingtons were all good at saying things to be interpreted according to taste; but Joost, with signal idiocy, stepped in and prevented.
"No," he said, "she preferred the photograph; she chose it of the two."
At this intelligence Denah's face was a study; Julia could not but be amused by it although she was sorry. She did not want to make the girl jealous, it was absurd that she should be; but absurdity never prevents such things, and would not now, nor would it make her pleasanter if she were once fairly roused. Julia smoothed matters over as well as she could, which was very well considering, though she failed to entirely allay Denah's suspicions.
As soon after as she could she set out for the village, leaving the field to the Dutch girl, and carrying with her enough unpleasant thoughts on other things to prevent her from giving any more consideration to the silly spasm of jealousy. She had thrust her two letters from England into her pocket, and as she went she kept turning and turning their news in her mind though without much result. There seemed very little she could do except prevent the banishing of her father to London. She would write to her mother about that, and, what might be rather more effective, to Mr. Gillat. She could tell him it must not happen, and instruct him how to place obstacles in the way; he would do his best to fulfil her requests, she was sure, even to going down to Marbridge and establishing himself there about the time of her father's intended departure. But with regard to the rest of her mother's plans, or Cherie's, whichever it might be, there seemed nothing to be done. To write would be useless; to go home, even if she swallowed her pride and did so, very little better; of course she had not anything very definite to go upon, only a hint here and there, yet she guessed pretty well what they were doing, what spending, and what they thought to get by it. The old, long-headed Julia feared for the result; Mrs. Polkington, clever though she undoubtedly was, had never succeeded in big ventures; she had not the sort of mind for it; she had never made a wholly successful big stride; her real climbing had been done very slowly, so the old Julia feared for her. And the new one, who had grown up during the past months, revolted against the whole thing, finding it sordid, despicable, dishonourable even, somehow all wrong. And perhaps because the old cautious Julia could do nothing to avert the consequences, the newer nature was in the ascendant that evening, and consequences were in time forgotten, and disgust and weariness and shame--which included self and all things connected with it--took possession of the girl.
By and by she heard a step behind her--Rawson-Clew. She had forgotten his existence; she was almost sorry to be reminded of it; she felt so ashamed of herself and her people, so conscious of the gulf between them and him. So very conscious of this last that she suddenly felt disinclined for the effort of struggling to hide or bridge it.
He caught up with her. "How has the crochet progressed this week under your care?" he asked her lightly.
"It has not progressed," she answered; "there are enough mistakes in it now to occupy Denah for a long time."
He took her basket from her, and she looked at him thoughtfully. He was just the same as usual, quiet, drawling voice, eyeglass, everything--she wondered if he were ever different; how he would act, say, in her circumstances. If they could change bodies, now, and he be Julia Polkington, with her relations, needs and opportunities, what would he do? Would he still be impassive, deliberate, equal to all occasions? Would he find it easy to keep his inviolable laws of good-breeding and honour, and so forth?
"There is something I should like to ask you," she said suddenly.
"Yes?" he inquired.
"Is it much trouble to you to be honest?"
He was a little surprised, though not so much as he would have been earlier in their acquaintance. "That," he said, "I expect rather depends on what you mean by honest. I imagine you don't refer to lying and stealing, and that sort of thing, since nobody finds it difficult to avoid them."
"They are not gentlemanly?" she suggested.
"I don't know that I ever looked at it in that way," he said; "or, indeed, any way. One does not think about those sort of things; one does not do them, that's all."
She nodded. The careless change of pronoun, which in a way included her with himself, was not lost upon her.
"In the matter of half-truths," she inquired; "how about them?"
"I don't think I have given that subject consideration either," he answered, rather amused; "there does not seem any need at my age. One does things, or one does not; abstractions don't appeal to most men after thirty."
Again Julia nodded. "It looks to me," she said, "as if you take your morality, like your dinner, as a matter of course; it's always there; you don't have to bother after it; you don't really know how it comes, or what it is worth."