The Tale of an Estrangement.
by J.E. Carter.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #10 (Jan 1906).
A story especially for husbands and wives who misunderstand each other.
They had finished dinner and the servant had left the room. Veronica pretended to eat the few strawberries on her plate and to sip the port wine her husband had poured out for her.
He had taken a second glass himself and was drinking it slowly, holding it up every now and then as if in admiration of its rare colour.
Except for the light from the candles in the quaint silver candlesticks on the table, the room was in half darkness—the delicious twilight of a summer evening. Outside, rain was falling after a long spell of fine weather, and the warm, damp, rose-scented breeze stole into the room, gently stirring the leaves of the tall palm placed near the open French window and mingling with the perfume of the roses decorating the table.
Silence reigned between the two young people within, husband and wife of four months' standing; neither seemed in any hurry to speak. He put down his wine glass and looked at her. Her head was bent, and he could see very little beyond the outline of her rounded pink cheek and the crown of silky black hair.
As he looked he was filled with wonder at the evil days upon which they had stumbled. Looking back, he remembered that everyone had predicted happiness for them with the certainty of complete indifference, and had exclaimed at the suitability of the match. He himself had considered that Veronica was the one woman in the world for him, and he had rejoiced much at having discovered her.
Their engagement lasted six weeks; Veronica's mother, who was a widow, did not approve of long engagements; she had four other daughters to provide for. They were married on the 14th of February, and went off gaily to spend the honeymoon in Paris, a city the bride of nineteen had a great desire to behold. She was well-amused and happy, but he soon tired of picture galleries and theatres, for he was of the country, and cared little for the allurements of town life. She was disappointed at the lack of energy he displayed in the matter of sight-seeing, as compared with her own unflagging interest in every thing; and they had had a slight difference even during this period of supposed bliss.
They returned home. More disenchantment on both sides followed.
It transpired that Veronica did not care for the country in the same way that he did, neither could she respond to his enthusiasm for the quaint old Dutch, gabled house that had come down to him through generations. It was all strange to her, and never would be home, she thought to herself, especially if the somewhat interfering and arbitrary old housekeeper were to remain a fixture. Also, she missed the company of her sisters, the entertainments, the daily visits of congenial friends; a husband proved an inadequate exchange for these delights of the past.
He on his part was equally dissatisfied. It was annoying of Veronica to dislike ratting; he had so looked forward to her companionship in this and other exciting sports.
He was also terribly disappointed to find that walking over ploughed fields was well nigh impossible to Veronica, who possessed only the most ridiculous high-heeled boots; and he grumbled, with some sense of right on his side, at a trousseau which had not included one pair of sensible country boots. But she indignantly refused either to procure a pair of "hobnails" for herself or to allow him to do so; she was intensely vain of her small and pretty feet.
Then, also, he was considerably taken aback by the demand one day that he should dismiss Raynes, the old housekeeper. This, he felt, was impossible; he could not entertain the idea for a moment. Besides, what had Raynes done amiss?
For the life of him he could not see. Full of the recent incident of the "hobnails," he was perhaps a little prejudiced that morning, and there was quite a scene, in which he asserted his determination to be master in his own house.
After this they drifted still further apart, and at last, after four months' experience of matrimony under these circumstances, the husband of twenty-two and the wife of nineteen had come to the conclusion that nothing would serve their end but a "Separation."
They hugged the word to themselves at first, and thought of it with importance. He had at once written to his lawyers and set things in train. A sort of nervous excitement, which she shared, had so far carried them along. But now the reaction had set in. To-morrow was the fatal day. To-morrow they were to go up to town to meet the lawyers, and to sign the papers separating them from each other.
Sitting opposite one another, in the pleasant summer dusk, now at the eleventh hour they began slowly to realise that, after all, the life together, which they were abandoning so readily, held certain possibilities, and that there might perhaps be something to regret in giving it up.
Veronica possessed a small income inherited from a godmother, and, in addition, her husband had eagerly agreed to the substantial settlements proposed for her by his legal advisers. She had no scruple in accepting what she felt to be her due under the circumstances, knowing well that, however unhappy her married life, she could not go home for a permanence were not her pecuniary independence most amply assured. But up to the present time she had told her family nothing, reluctant to acknowledge her failure in the great lottery until the final step had been taken. And now the time had come!
"Well, at any rate, the girls will be pleased—they always liked a surprise," she thought to herself. "And, after all, I am married, so mamma won't have the trouble of finding a husband for me."
Richard Lester was also occupied with his thoughts, and after some time he broke the silence.
"I suppose, Veronica, we are doing the only sensible thing?" he said. "I suppose it's no use trying it any longer?"
"No, no; it's no use," she answered in a low voice, "we have decided it, and we must go on with it. Besides, we both wish it."
He did not reply, for just then he forgot that he had ever wished it. Her next words, however, were not without effect.
"You have always said that I am not suitable for the wife of a man in the country; because I hate walking in nasty, thick, hobnail boots, and because I can't endure to see rats killed. It is quite true—I am not fit for a country life. Therefore, as we are so unsuitably married, the one and only thing is for us to separate, which we are now about to do. You," she continued scornfully, with deliberate intention to wound him in his tenderest point, "you are too young, I consider, to be married at all. You should have waited until you were a little older, and less under Raynes' thumb!"
Perhaps the wish to "touch him up," as she expressed it to herself, arose from the fact that at this precise moment Raynes herself passed the window, ostentatiously carrying into the house an easel and paint-box that Veronica had left out in the rain. An act of officiousness, her mistress decided, and straightway visited it upon her husband.
If she desired to annoy him, she certainly achieved her end.
"Young!" he cried, with natural indignation. "At least I am older than you. You had better return to school when you leave me, and learn to walk in respectable boots."
He sprang up so suddenly that his chair fell backwards with a crash. She rose slowly.
"I am going upstairs to pack," she said with dignity. "I shall be in good time to-morrow morning."
"Yes, we mustn't miss the train," he said more quietly; the noise of the overturned chair had checked the rising storm. He opened the door for her, and she passed upstairs to her room, where she began to pack with energy. She had decided to take only a small trunk with her, and to have the rest of her belongings sent after her.
Later she heard her husband come upstairs, but for nearly an hour he restlessly paced the corridor to and fro; then suddenly he turned into his room and shut the door with a bang.
The next morning she descended in good time as she had promised, rather pale, but looking very pretty in a smoke-grey coat and skirt; the sky-blue of her blouse matching the forget-me-nots in her hat. He was not long after her, and they sat down to breakfast, presumably for the last time together. They spoke but little and ate with small appetite.
Presently the dogcart came round. She saw a portmanteau of his put in with her trunk, but betrayed no interest in the fact.
She heard her husband telling Raynes not to expect him back that evening; not, indeed, until she should hear from him, and Veronica saw a look of absolute dislike directed at her from the old woman as she prepared to get up into the dogcart. Her husband took the reins, and joined her, and the groom sat uncomfortably behind among the luggage.
They had rather a silent drive. The country was exquisite for those who had eyes to see it, but these young people had no leisure from their own gloomy thoughts to notice the rejoicing of Nature, in gratitude for last night's rain.
The train was a little late, and the waiting time seemed long and miserable to the estranged husband and wife. However, up it came at last, and they were whirled off to town, feeling at least grateful for the noise which prevented even the possibility of much consecutive conversation.
It was raining when they emerged from the station, after depositing their luggage "until called for." This put them out considerably, as she had omitted to bring an umbrella. However, he had one, which they shared till they procured a hansom. It was annoying of it to rain—everything looked so dismal, and surely they needed a little cheering! They gazed out at the wet pavements and hurrying people, each from their own particular little window.
It came with a shock to Veronica that she hated London; that she wished she were returning to the dull house in the country she had been so anxious to leave, and the shock was intensified by the fear that this discovery had come rather late. She kept her head turned away resolutely. He should not see the tears in her blue eyes, and triumph in the fall of her pride. Besides, pride had not given in as yet.
Her husband did not see the tears or the flushed face; he was looking at the silky black head, and thinking how he had liked to caress its softness.
Their hansom stopped with a jerk; they descended to reality and earth at the door of the office of Messrs. Knifton & Stone, both holding themselves very erect, and expressing, by their outward demeanour, unyielding pride and determination.
A smart youth in buttons admitted them, and they were invited to sit down in a private room. Veronica only hoped that her hand would stop shaking before her turn came to sign.
The door opened after some time, and a gentleman—neither Knifton nor Stone—came in, looking confused and uncomfortable.
"I am afraid there has been some mistake," he began. "I regret very much that it should have occurred. We did not expect you till to-morrow; both the partners are out of town to-day. We understood the day you fixed to have been June 28th, that is, to-morrow. I am really very distressed —"
He seemed so, and Dick Lester hastened to reassure him. The young husband felt suddenly something like a reprieved criminal; in an instant his whole aspect lightened.
Presently they stood outside again, in the rain, under one umbrella.
"Now, what will you do, Veronica?" he said, as they walked on aimlessly. "Shall we spend our last day together, or will you go straight home to your mother?"
"Oh, we'll spend it together," she answered, trying to laugh.
"All right, then, we'll go and have lunch somewhere first. Come on," he said, brightening considerably, and hurrying her along in the direction of his favourite restaurant.
Once there, sitting at a little table, provided with salmon mayonnaise and champagne, and attended to by an obsequious waiter, it was wonderful how their spirits rose.
"Let us go and hear Annette Sterndale," Veronica suggested, seeing a placard next her announcing a concert for that afternoon with the great singer's name in large type on the top. "I love Annette Sterndale."
"Right you are," he answered, suppressing unselfishly the fact that he would rather have attended a matinée at the Gaiety. "That's what we'll do, then."
He paid the bill, not forgetting to recompense their friendly attendant, who, as a last act of courtesy, pushed aside the swing doors, and opening their umbrella, presented it to them with a bow.
"He evidently thinks we are just engaged or married," said Dick, with rather a bitter laugh.
St. Peter's Hall is small, and it was already more than half full when Dick and Veronica entered and took their seats. She saw no one she knew, for which she was thankful; gloom had again descended on the pair; he was not an enthusiast on music, and she was beginning to recognise the loneliness of London after her four months' absence.
She drew nearer to Dick, who was looking straight in front of him, by no means prepared to enjoy himself. They felt they had at length arrived at their last hour, and the strangeness of it filled them both with apprehension.
The concert began, and after one or two items Madame Sterndale appeared, and sang her song. It was a simple song, but rich in pathos, and sung by perhaps the most sympathetic singer of the time. During the afternoon she sang one or two more, of the same description—songs telling of love, and home and little children, and the exquisite sympathy expressed in her deep and wonderful tones reached at least two of her hearers' hearts.
As she was singing the last on the programme, Dick felt a touch, and looking down, perceived a grey suède glove resting on his knee. His own hand instantly clasped and held firmly the trembling little thing, and he turned quickly to meet two imploring blue eyes, whose message was not difficult to read.
"Let's get out of this," he whispered to her. "You do not feel well, dear?"
She could not answer; she clung to his arm as he piloted her through the crowd with extreme care, and landed her safely outside. It was still raining, but that was immaterial to them. He held the umbrella tenderly over the forget-me-not hat, and under its shelter she wept a little "weep," while he strove to comfort her, endearing words rising to his lips as if by magic.
The past now seemed to them as a dream of the night, and they were awaking to a golden future stretching out before them; conscious how very nearly they had missed the way to the enchanted land of love, and very grateful to the wonderful voice with its powerful charm that had wrought this happy change in their affairs.
"All the time Madame Sterndale was singing I felt I could not leave you," confessed Veronica, as arm in arm they walked up and down the Thames Embankment, which is at a convenient distance from St. Peter's Hall, and proved on this wet afternoon a quiet spot for private conversation. "I believe some ice melted in me somewhere—I felt just like that. Oh, Dick, if you will only forgive—"
He squeezed her arm, and then had his say, after which they both looked radiant. A carriage driving by suddenly pulled up, a fashionably-bonneted head was thrust out of the window, and they heard their names called in evident astonishment.
"Oh, Dick, I believe it's mamma! How unlucky!" whispered Veronica, as they went towards the imperatively-beckoning personage.
"Get in, child, get in, Dick," exclaimed the widow, making room beside herself for Veronica, who unwillingly obeyed her command; and Dick followed suit. "Fancy meeting you here! I must have a little talk with you both—I am delighted to see you—and there's no reason why I should keep you and the horse standing in the rain, even though I only hire him by the quarter.
"You are looking very well, and happy," she added, kissing her daughter, and thinking with pride of her share in this case of decided matrimonial success.
"You are really a pattern pair! After four months, too! Both under one umbrella! I declare it's most creditable—I am quite proud of you!"
Dick and Veronica felt the position to be a little disconcerting, and a look passed between them which the widow saw but did not comprehend. She was satisfied that all was well, however, and was thirsting for information as to their movements.
"So fortunate I just happened to see you, for I don't believe you were coming on to me—you didn't look like it," she said playfully. "I had been to call on some new acquaintances staying at the Cecil. They are Americans and very well off. I think it is my duty," she added, "to cultivate them for the sake of the girls—they have actually a stray young man or two belonging to them."
The widow was known to be diplomatic in her selection of acquaintances, choosing them not only with a view to the pleasure of their society, but with an eye to business.
"How are the girls?" Veronica asked; but while the family history was related at length, Dick seized the opportunity afforded by a temporary halt through pressure of traffic, to demand that they should be set down forthwith.
"Oh, but really, I've seen nothing of you! And surely you are coming back to tea?" cried the disappointed lady.
"Very sorry, but we are going back soon, and must not miss our train," said her son-in-law firmly. "We only came up to—to—hear Madame Annette Sterndale, but we will come and spend a day with you before long." And the carriage drove off amid hand-wavings and expostulations, and a sudden revelation to the widow that, now that she had married off her daughter, she knew very little about her and her husband.
Mr. and Mrs. Lester decided to go home by the seven-thirty train, and having dispatched a telegram to the housekeeper to that effect, they proceeded to have tea at a prettily-decorated Japanese tea-shop. During the cosy meal Veronica said she wished to do some shopping.
"My dear girl, shall we have time!" said Dick, consulting his watch. "What is it you want to buy?"
"A—a pair of thick boots," she answered shyly, blushing a little.
They bought the boots, the sweetest little pair of brown "hobnails" ever seen, and they were fortunate enough to secure an empty compartment for the entire journey; but perhaps the guard saw to that, for he certainly locked them in.
"Raynes must go," Dick told his wife as they were being whirled home. "She shall have a cottage, and I'll pension the old lady off. Besides, she isn't really half so capable as she was. She let you start this morning without an umbrella!"
* * * * *
A year later. Summer once more, and Dick and Veronica are awaiting their guest on the lawn. Together they had composed a letter to Madame Annette Sterndale, intreating her to pay them a week-end visit, and urging as their plea that she had once done them a great service, the story of which should be related to her.
She had accepted the invitation, and her arrival was now due. Even as they watched the carriage turned in at the gates, and the young husband and wife welcomed a tired, worn-out woman.
She was delighted to come, she said, in her deep and gracious tones, instantly putting them at their ease.
The "story" followed after dinner. In the cool, dim, rose-scented drawing room they told it to her, sitting side by side on the sofa opposite her easy-chair.
Eagerly they explained that they owed their escape from a dreary future of sorrow and incompleteness entirely to the charm of her magic voice, and the woman nearing her rest listened, well pleased, dreamily wondering whether she had ever realised to the full her own wonderful power.
After they had talked awhile, Veronica left the room. Dick excused her absence by saying that his wife was about to reveal a great secret, which he was not permitted to divulge.
Perhaps Madame Sterndale guessed the important secret—at any rate, her arms were outstretched to receive the mysteriously shawled white bundle that Veronica put into them with extreme care and immense pride, a few moments later.
"There," she said naively, "kiss our little Dick, dear Madame, for if it had not been for you—"
And then they wept, as women will, even in their happiest moments; the great singer and the happy wife and mother.