Book: The Good Comrade

U >> Una L. Silberrad >> The Good Comrade




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."

Now and then Rawson-Clew had observed in his acquaintance with Julia,
she said things which had a way of lighting him up to himself; this
was one of the occasions. "Possibly you are right," he said, with
faint amusement. "How do you take yours? Let us consider yours; I am
sure it would be a great deal more interesting."

"There would be more variety in it," she said significantly.

"What is your opinion about half-truths?" he inquired, with grave
mimicry of her.

"'Half a truth, however small,
Is better than no truth at all,'"

she quoted. "That is so; it is better, safer to deal with--to explain
away if it is found out, to deceive with if it is not. But it is not
half so easy as the whole truth; that is the easiest thing in the
world; it takes no ingenuity, no brains, no courage, no acting, no
feeling the pulse of your people, no bolstering up or watching or
remembering. If I wanted to teach the beauty of truth, I would set my
pupils to do a little artistic white lying on their own account, to
make things look four times as good as they really were, and not to
forget to make them square together, that would teach them the
advantage of truth."

"Do you think so?" Rawson-Clew said. "It is not the usual opinion;
fools and cowards are generally supposed to be the great dealers in
deceit and subterfuge."

"May be," Julia allowed; "but I don't happen to have come across that
sort much; the other I have, and I am just about sick of it--I am sick
of pretending and shamming and double-dealing, of saying one thing and
implying another, and meaning another still--you don't know what it
feels like, you have never had to do it; you wouldn't, of course; very
likely you couldn't, even. I am weary of it; I am weary of the whole
thing."

Rawson-Clew screwed the glass into his eye carefully but did not look
at her; he had an idea she would rather not. "What is it?" he asked
kindly. "What has gone wrong to-night? Too much pudding again?"

"No," she answered, with a quick, if partial, recovery; "too much
humbug, too much self. I have seen a great deal of myself lately, and
it's hateful."

"I cannot agree with you."

"Do you like having a lot of yourself?"

"No; I like yourself."

She laughed a little; in her heart she was pleased, but she only said,
"I don't; I know what it really is."

"And I do not?"

"No," she answered; then, with a sudden determination to tell him the
worst, and to deal in this newly admired honesty, she said, "I will
tell you, though. You remember my father? You may have politely
forgotten him, or smoothed out your recollections of him--remember him
now; he is just about what you thought him."

"Indeed?" the tone was that one of polite interest, which she had come
to know so well. "Your shoe is unfastened; may I tie it for you? The
question is," he went on, as he stooped to her shoe, "what did I think
of your father? I'm sure I don't know, and I hardly think you are in
a position to, either."

She moved impatiently, so that the shoelace slipped out of his hand,
and he had to begin all over again. It was a very shabby shoe; at
another time she might have minded about it, and even refused to have
it fastened on that account; to-night she did not care, which was
perhaps as well, for Rawson-Clew knew long ago all about the
shabbiness--the only thing he did not know before was the good shape
of the foot inside.

"I know perfectly well what you thought my father," she said; "if you
have forgotten, I will remind you. You did not think him an
adventurer, I know; of course, you saw he had not brains enough."

But here the shoe tying was finished, and Rawson-Clew intimated
politely that he was not anxious to be reminded of things he had
forgotten. "You began by saying you would tell me about yourself," he
said; "will you not go on?"

"I have more brains than my father," she said, "and no more
principles."

"_Ergo_--you succeed where he falls short; in fact, you are an
adventuress--is that it? My dear child, you neither are, nor ever
could be; believe me, I really do know, though, as you have indicated,
my morality is rather mechanical and my experience much as other
men's. You see, I, too, have graduated in the study of humanity in the
university of cosmopolis; I don't think my degree is as high as yours,
and I certainly did not take it so young, but I believe I know an
adventuress when I see one. You will never do in that walk of life; I
don't mean to insinuate that you haven't brains enough, or that you
would ever lose your head; it isn't that you would lose, it's your
heart."

"I haven't;" Julia cried hotly. "I have not lost my heart; that has
nothing to do with it."

"I did not say that you had," Rawson-Clew reminded her; "of course
not, you have not lost it, and could not easily. I did not mean that;
I only meant that it would interfere with your success as an
adventuress."

"It would not," Julia persisted; "I don't care about people a bit; it
isn't that, it is simply that I am sick of deception, that is why I am
telling you the truth. And as for the other thing--the daffodil"--she
forgot that he did not know about it--"I couldn't take it from any one
so silly, so childish, so trusting."

"Of course not," Rawson-Clew said. "I don't know what the daffodil
thing is, nor from whom you could not take it--please don't tell me; I
never take the slightest interest in other people's business, it bores
me. But, you see, you bear out what I say; you are of those strong who
are merciful; you would make no success as an adventuress. Besides,
your tastes are too simple; I have some recollections of your
mentioning corduroy--er--trousers and a diet of onions as the height
of your ambition."

Julia laughed in spite of herself. "That is only when I retire," she
said. "I haven't retired yet; until I do I am--"

"The incarnation of the seven deadly sins?" Rawson-Clew finished for
her, with a smile in his eyes. "No doubt of it; I expect that is what
makes you good company."

So, after all, it came about that she did not get her confession made
in full. But, then, there hardly seemed need for it; it appeared that
Rawson-Clew already knew a great deal about her, and did not think the
worse of her for it. Rather it seemed he thought better than she had
even believed; he, himself, too, was rather different--there had
crept a note of warmth and personality into their acquaintance which
had not been there before. Julia had pleasant thoughts for company on
her homeward walk, in spite of the worry of the letters she carried
with her; she even for a moment had an idea of putting the matter they
contained before Rawson-Clew and asking his advice; that is, if the
friendship which had begun to dawn on their acquaintance that evening
grew yet further. It did grow, but she did not ask him, loyalty to her
family prevented; there were, however, plenty of other things to talk
about, and the friendship got on well until the end came.

The end came about the time of the annual fair. This fair was a great
event in the little town; it only lasted three days, and only the
middle one of the three was important, or in the least provocative of
disorder; but--so Mijnheer said--it upset business very much. After
inquiry as to how this came about, Julia learnt that it was found
necessary to give the workmen a holiday on the principal day. They got
so drunk the night before, that most of them were unfit for work, and
a few even had the hardihood to stop away entirely, so as to devote
the whole day to getting drunk again. Under these circumstances,
Mijnheer made a virtue of necessity, and gave a whole holiday to the
entire staff.

"Does the office have a holiday too?" Julia asked.

Mijnheer nodded. "These young fellows," he said, "are all for
holidays; they are not like their fathers. Now it is always 'I must
ride on my wheel; I must row in my boat; I must play my piano; let us
put the work away as soon as we can, and forget it.' It was not so in
my young days; then we worked, or we slept; playing was for children.
There were some great men of business in those days."

Julia was not in a position to contradict this; she only said, "It is
a real holiday, then, like a bank holiday in England?"

"A real holiday, yes," he answered her; "a holiday for you too, if you
like. Would you like a real English bank holiday?" He called to his
wife: "See here," he said, "here is an English miss who would like an
English holiday; when the workmen have theirs she shall have hers too,
is it not so?"

Mevrouw nodded, laughing. "But what will you do with it?" she asked.

"I should go out," Julia answered; "if it is fine I should go out all
day."

"To the fair?" Mijnheer asked. "You would not like that alone; it
would be very rough."

"I should go out into the country," Julia said. "I should make an
excursion all by myself."

They seemed a good deal amused by her taste, but the idea suggested in
fun was really determined upon; Julia, so Mijnheer promised, should
have a holiday when every one else did, and do just what she pleased.

"You shall do as you like," he said; "even though it is not to go to
the fair and eat _pooferchjes_. It is only once in a year one can eat
_pooferchjes_, or three times rather; they are to be had on each of
the three days."

"What are they?" Julia asked. "I have never heard of them."

"Never heard of them," the old man exclaimed. "They do not have them,
I suppose, on an English bank holiday? Then certainly you must have
them here; we will go and eat them on the first day of the fair, when
everything is nice and clean, and there are not too many people about.
I will find a nice quiet place, and we will go and eat them together,
after tea, before there are great crowds. Will you come with me? I
shall be taking my young lady to the fair like a gay dog."

He chuckled at the idea, and Julia readily agreed. "I shall be
delighted," she said.

When Denah came, a little later, it seemed she would be delighted too,
although she was not specially asked. But when she heard of the plan,
she announced that her father had promised to take Anna and herself,
and what could be better than that the parties should join? Mijnheer
quite approved of this, so did Julia; and she, on hearing Denah's
proposal, at once saw that Joost was included as he had not been
before. Joost did not like fairs; he objected to noise, and glare, and
crowds, and all such things; neither did he care for _pooferchjes_;
they were too bilious for him. Nevertheless he agreed to join the
party; Denah was quite sure it was entirely on her account.

On the morning of the first day of the fair, Julia went into the town
to buy cakes to take with her on to-morrow's excursion. She had not
changed her mind about that; she was still fully determined to go and
spend a long day in the Dunes. She had not told the Van Heigens of the
place chosen; she and Mijnheer had much fun and mystery about it, he
declaring she was going to the wood to ride donkeys with the head
gardener's fat wife. There was another thing she also had not told the
Van Heigens--a slight alteration there had been in her plans; she was
not, as she had first intended, going alone. It had somehow come about
that Rawson-Clew was going with her; he had never seen the Dunes, and
he had nothing to do that day, and he was not going to Herr Van de
Greutz in the evening, it seemed rather a good idea that he should go
for a holiday too; Julia saw no objection to it, but also she saw that
it would not do to tell her Dutch employers. She had never mentioned
Rawson Clew to them--there had not seemed any need; she never met him
till she was clear of the town and the range of reporting tongues
there, and she usually parted from him before she reached the village
and the observers there, so nothing was known of the evening walks.
Which was rather a pity, for, as Julia afterwards found out, it is
often wisest to tell something of your doings, especially if you
cannot tell all, and they are likely to come in for public notice.

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