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Demos: A Story of English Socialism

<h2> CHAPTER XXII </h2> Her waking after a short morning sleep was dark and troubled. The taste of last night’s happiness was like ashes on her tongue; fearing to face the daylight, she lay with lids heavily closed on a brain which ached in its endeavour to resume the sensations of a few hours ago. The images of those with whom she had talked so cheerfully either eluded her memory, or flitted before her unexpectedly, mopping and mowing, so that her heart was revolted. It is in wakings such as these that Time finds his opportunity to harry youth; every such unwinds from about us one of the veils of illusion, bringing our eyes so much nearer to the horrid truth of things. Adela shrank from the need of rising; she would have abandoned herself to voiceless desolation, have lain still and dark whilst the current of misery swept over her, deeper and deeper. When she viewed her face, its ring-eyed pallor fascinated her with incredulity. Had she looked at all like that whilst Hubert Eldon and the others were talking to her? What did they secretly think of her? The others might attribute to her many more years than she had really seen; but Hubert knew her age. Perhaps that was why he glanced at her twice or thrice on the stairs. For the first time she wished not to be alone with Stella, fearing lest the conversation should turn on Hubert. Yet, when they had sat together for nearly an hour, and Stella had not named him, she began to suffer from a besieging desire to speak of him, a recurrent impulse to allude to him, however distantly, so that her companion might be led to the subject. The impulse grew to a torment, more intolerable each time she resisted it. And at last she found herself uttering the name involuntarily, overcome by something stronger than her dread. ‘I was surprised to meet Mr. Eldon.’ ‘Did you know him?’ Stella asked simply. ‘He used to live at Wanley Manor.’ Stella seemed to revive memories. ‘Oh, that was how I knew the name. Mr. Westlake told me of him, at the time when the Manor passed to Mr. Mutimer.’ Her husband was from home, so had not been at the Boscobels’ last evening. Adela could rest now that she had spoken. She was searching for a means of leading the conversation into another channel, when Stella continued,— ‘You knew him formerly?’ ‘Yes, when he still lived at Wanley. I have not met him since he went away.’ Stella mused. ‘I suppose he came to live in London?’ ‘I understood so.’ At length Adela succeeded in speaking of something else. Mental excitement had set her blood flowing more quickly, as though an obstruction were removed. Before long the unreasoning lightness of heart began to take possession of her again. It was strangely painful. To one whom suffering has driven upon self-study the predominance of a mere mood is always more or less a troublesome mystery; in Adela’s case it was becoming a source of fear. She seemed to be losing self-control; in looking back on last evening she doubted whether her own will had been at all operative in the state of calm enjoyment to which she had attained. Was it physical weakness which put her thus at the mercy of the moment’s influences? There came a letter from Mutimer to-day; in it he mentioned Alice and reminded Adela of her promise. This revived a trouble which had fallen out of activity for a day or two. She could not come to any decision. When at Alice’s house she had not even suggested a return visit; at the moment it had seemed so out of the question for Alice to meet Mrs. Westlake. In any case, was it worth while exposing Stella to the difficulties of such a meeting when it could not possibly lead to anything further? One reason against it Adela was ashamed to dwell upon, yet it weighed strongly with her: she was so jealous of her friend’s love, so fearful of losing anything in Stella’s estimation, that she shrank from the danger of becoming associated with Mrs. Rodman in Stella’s mind. Could she speak freely of Alice? Mutimer’s affectionate solicitude was honourable to him, and might veil much that was disagreeable in Alice. But the intimacy between Adela and Mrs. Westlake was not yet of the kind which permits a free disclosure of troubles to which, rightly or wrongly, there attaches a sense of shame. Such troubles are always the last to be spoken of between friends; friendship must be indeed far-reaching before it includes them within its scope. They were still but learning to know each other, and that more from silent observation, from the sympathy of looks, from touchings of hands and lips, than by means of direct examination or avowal. The more she strove with her difficulty the less able Adela felt herself to ask Mrs. Rodman to come or to mention her to Stella. The trouble spoilt her enjoyment of a concert that evening, and kept her restless in the night, for, though seemingly a small matter, it had vital connection with the core of her life’s problem; it forced her relentlessly to a consciousness of many things from which she had taught herself to avert her eyes. Another thing there was which caused her anxious debate—a project which had been in her mind for nearly a year. You will not imagine that Adela had forgotten the letter from Mrs. Clay. The knowledge it brought her made the turning-point of her life. No word on the subject passed between her and Mutimer after the conversation which ended in her fainting-fit. The letter he retained, and the course he had chosen made it advisable that he should pay no heed to its request for assistance. Adela remembered the address of the writer, and made a note of it, but it was impossible to reply. Her state of mind after overhearing the conversation between Richard and his sister was such that she durst not even take the step of privately sending money, lest her husband should hear of it and it should lead to further question. She felt that, hard as it was to live with that secret, to hear Mutimer repeat his calumnies would involve her in yet worse anguish, leading perhaps to terrible things; for, on her return to the house that night, she suffered a revelation of herself, which held her almost mute for the following days. In her heart there fought passions of which she had not known herself capable; above all a scorn so fierce, that had she but opened her lips it must have uttered itself. That she lived down by the aid of many strange expedients; but she formed a purpose, which seemed indeed nothing less than a duty, to use the opportunity of her first visit to London to seek for means of helping Emma Vine and her sister. Her long illness had not weakened this resolve; but now that she was in London the difficulties of carrying it out proved insuperable. She had always imagined herself procuring the services of some agent, but what agent was at hand? She might go herself to the address she had noted, but it was to incur a danger too great even for the end in view. If Mutimer heard of such a visit—and she had no means of assuring herself that communication between him and those people did not still exist—how would it affect him? Adela’s position would not suffer the risk of ever so slight a difference between herself and her husband. She had come to fear him, and now there was growing in her a yet graver fear of herself. The condition of her health favoured remissness and postponement. An hour of mental agitation left her with headache and a sense of bodily feebleness. Emma Vine she felt in the end obliged to dismiss from her thoughts; the difficulty concerning Alice she put off from day to day. The second week of her visit was just ending, and the return to Wanley was in view, when, on entering the drawing-room in the afternoon, she found Hubert Eldon sitting there with Mrs. Westlake. If it had been possible to draw back her foot and escape unnoticed! But she was observed; Hubert had already risen. Adela fancied that Stella was closely observing her; it was not so in reality, but the persuasion wrung her heart to courage. Hubert, who did make narrow observance of her face, was struck with the cold dignity of her smile. In speaking to him she was much less friendly than at the Boscobels’. He thought he understood, and was in a measure right. A casual meeting in the world was one thing; a visit which might be supposed half intended to herself called for another demeanour. He addressed a few remarks to her, then pursued his conversation with Mrs. Westlake. Adela had time to consider his way of speaking; it was entirely natural, that of a polished man who has the habit of society, and takes pleasure in it. With utter inconsistency she felt pain that he could be so at his ease in her presence. In all likelihood he had come with no other end save that of continuing his acquaintance with Mrs. Westlake. As she listened to his voice, once more an inexplicable and uncontrollable mood possessed her—a mood of petulance, of impatience with him and with herself; with him for almost ignoring her presence, with herself for the distant way in which she had met him. An insensate rebellion against circumstances encouraged her to feel hurt; by a mystery of the mind intervening time was cancelled, and it seemed unnatural, hard to bear, that Hubert should by preference address another than herself. An impulse similar to that which had forced her to speak his name in conversation with Stella now constrained her to break silence, to say something which would require a reply. Her feeling became a sort of self-pity; he regarded her as beneath his notice, he wished her to see that his indifference was absolute; why should he treat her so cruelly? She added a few words to a remark Mrs. Westlake made, and, the moment she had spoken, was sensible that her tone had been strangely impulsive. Stella glanced at her. Hubert, too, turned his eyes, smiled, and made some reply; she had no understanding of what he said. Had not force failed her she would have risen and left the room. Her heart sank in yet crueller humiliation; she believed there were tears in her eyes, yet had no power to check them. He was still addressing Mrs. Westlake; herself he deemed incapable of appreciating what he said. Perhaps he even—the thought made clanging in her ears, like a rude bell—perhaps he even regarded her as a social inferior since her marriage. It was almost hysteria, to such a pitch of unreason was she wrought. Her second self looked on, anguished, helpless. The voices in the room grew distant and confused. Then the door was opened and the servant announced— ‘Mr. Mutimer.’ It saved her. She saw her husband enter, and an ice-cold breath made frigid her throbbing veins. She fixed her eyes upon him, and could not remove them; they followed him from the door to where Stella stood to receive him. She saw that he almost paused on recognising Eldon, that his brows contracted, that involuntarily he looked at her. ‘You know Mr. Eldon,’ Stella said, perhaps in not quite her ordinary voice, for the meeting could in no case be a very happy one. ‘Oh yes,’ replied Mutimer, scarcely looking at Hubert, and making an idle effort at a bow. Hubert did not reseat himself. He took leave of Stella cordially; to Adela he inclined himself at respectful distance. Mrs. Westlake supplied conversation. Adela, leaving her former chair, took a seat by her friend’s side, but could not as yet trust her voice. Presently her husband addressed her; it was for the first time; he had not even given his hand. ‘Alice is very anxious that you should dine with her before you go home. Do you think Mrs. Westlake could spare you this evening?’ And, on Stella’s looking an inquiry, he added: ‘My sister, Mrs. Rodman. I don’t think you know her?’ Adela had no choice but to procure her hostess’s assent to this arrangement. ‘I’ll call for you at seven o’clock,’ Mutimer said. Adela knew that he was commanding himself; his tone was not quite discourteous, but he had none of the genial satisfaction which he ordinarily showed in the company of refined people. She attributed his displeasure to her neglect of Alice. But it did not affect her as it had been wont to; she was disposed to resent it. The time between his departure and seven o’clock she spent by herself, unoccupied, sitting as if tired. She put off the necessary changing of garments till there was scarcely time for it. When at length she was summoned she went down with flushed face. ‘I feel as if I were going to have a fever,’ she said to Stella in the drawing-room. She could not help uttering the words, but laughed immediately. ‘Your hand is really very hot,’ Stella replied. Mutimer had a cab at the door, and was waiting in the hall. ‘You’re a long time,’ was his greeting, with more impatience than he had ever used to her. When they were together in the hansom: ‘Why did you refuse Alice’s invitation before?’ he asked with displeasure. ‘I didn’t think she really wished me to accept it.’ She spoke without misgiving, still resenting his manner. ‘Didn’t think? Why, what do you mean?’ She made no reply. ‘You didn’t ask her to call, either?’ ‘I ought to have done so. I am very sorry to have neglected it.’ He looked at her with surprise which was very like a sneer, and kept silence till they reached the house. One of the ladies whom Adela had already met, and a gentleman styled Captain something, were guests at dinner. Alice received her sister-in-law with evident pleasure, though not perhaps that of pure hospitableness. ‘I do hope it won’t be too much for you,’ she said. ‘Pray leave as soon as you feel you ought to. I should never forgive myself if you took a cold or anything of the kind.’ Really, Alice had supplied herself with most becoming phrases. The novels had done much; and then she had been living in society. At dinner she laughed rather too loud, it might be, and was too much given to addressing her husband as ‘Willis;’ but her undeniable prettiness in low-necked evening dress condoned what was amiss in manner. Mr. Rodman looked too gentlemanly; he reminded one of a hero of polite melodrama on the English-French stage. The Captain talked stock-exchange, and was continually inquiring about some one or other, ‘Did he drop much?’ Mutimer was staying at the house over-night. After dinner he spoke aside with Adela. ‘I suppose you go back to-morrow?’ ‘Yes, I meant to.’ ‘We may as well go together, then. I’ll call for you at two o’clock.’ He considered, and changed the hour. ‘No, I’ll come at ten. I want you to go with me to buy some things. Then we’ll have lunch here.’ ‘And go back for my luggage?’ ‘We’ll take it away at ten o’clock and leave it at the station. I suppose you can be ready?’ ‘Yes, I can be ready,’ Adela answered mechanically. He drove back with her to Avenue Road in the Rodmans’ carriage, and left her at the door. Mr. Westlake was expected home to-night, but had telegraphed to say that he would return in the morning. Stella had spent the evening alone; Adela found her in the boudoir with a single lamp, reading. ‘Are you still feverish?’ Stella asked, putting to her cheek the ungloved hand. ‘I think not—I can’t say.’ Stella waited to hear something about the evening, but Adela broke the silence to say: ‘I must leave at ten in the morning. My husband will call for me.’ ‘So early?’ ‘Yes.’ There was silence again. ‘Will you come and see me before long, Stella?’ ‘I will,’ was the gentle reply. ‘Thank you. I shall look forward to it very much.’ Then Adela said good-night, speaking more cheerfully. In her bedroom she sat as before dinner. The fever had subsided during the past two hours, but now it crept into her blood again, insidious, tingling. And with it came so black a phantom of despair that Adela closed her eyes shudderingly, lay back as one lifeless, and wished that it were possible by the will alone to yield the breath and cease. The night pulsed about her, beat regularly like a great clock, and its pulsing smote upon her brain. To-morrow she must follow her husband, who would come to lead her home. Home? what home had she? What home would she ever have but a grave in the grassy churchyard of Wanley? Why did death spare her when it took the life which panted but for a moment on her bosom? She must leave Stella and go back to her duties at the Manor; must teach the children of New Wanley; must love, honour, obey her husband. Returning from Exmouth, she was glad to see her house again; now she had rather a thousand times die than go back. Horror shook her like a palsy; all that she had borne for eighteen months seemed accumulated upon her now, waited for her there at Wanley to be endured again. Oh! where was the maiden whiteness of her soul? What malignant fate had robbed her for ever of innocence and peace? Was this fever or madness? She rose and flung her arms against a hideous form which was about to seize her. It would not vanish, it pressed upon her. She cried, fled to the door, escaped, and called Stella’s name aloud. A door near her own opened, and Stella appeared. Adela clung to her, and was drawn into the room. Those eyes of infinite pity gazing into her own availed to calm her. ‘Shall I send for some one?’ Stella asked anxiously, but with no weak bewilderment. ‘No; it is not illness. But I dread to be alone; I am nervous.’ ‘Will you stay with me, dear?’ ‘Oh, Stella, let me, let me! I want to be near to you whilst I may!’ Stella’s child slept peacefully in a crib; the voices were too low to wake it. Almost like another child, Adela allowed herself to be undressed. ‘Shall I leave a light?’ Stella asked. ‘No, I can sleep. Only let me feel your arms.’ They lay in unbroken silence till both slept. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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