A Princess of Thule

CHAPTER XIII.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

IF Frank Lavender had been told that his love for his wife was in danger of waning, he would have laughed the suggestion to scorn. He was as fond of her and as proud of her as ever. Who knew as well as himself the tenderness of her heart, the delicate sensitiveness of her conscience, the generosity of self-sacrifice she was always ready to bestow? and was he likely to become blind, so that he should fail to see how fair and frank and handsome she was? He had been disappointed, it is true, in his fancies about the impression she would produce on his friends; but what a trifle was that! The folly of those fancies was his own. For the rest, he was glad that Sheila was not so different from the other women whom he knew. He hit upon the profound reflection, as he sat alone in his studio, that a man’s wife, like his costume, should not be so remarkable as to attract attention. The perfection of dress was that you should be unconscious of its presence; might that not be so with marriage? After all, it was better he had not bound himself to lug about a lion whenever he visited people’s houses.

Still, there was something. He found himself a good deal alone. Sheila did not seem to care much for going into society; and, although he did not much like the notion of going by himself, nevertheless one had certain duties towards one’s friends to perform. She did not even care to go down to the Park of a forenoon. She always professed her readiness to go, but he fancied it was a trifle tiresome for her; and so, when there was nothing particular going on in the studio, he would walk down through Kensington Gardens himself, and have a chat with some friends, followed generally by luncheon with this or the other party of them. Sheila had been taught that she ought not to come so frequently to that studio. Bras would not lie quiet. Moreover, if dealers or other strangers should come in, would they not take her for a model? So Sheila stayed at home; and Mr Lavender, after having dressed with care in the morning – with very singular care, indeed, considering that he was going to his work – used to go down to his studio to smoke a cigarette. The chances were that he was not in the humor for working. He would sit down in an easy-chair and kick his heels on the floor for a time, watching, perhaps, the sunlight come in through the upper part of the windows and paint yellow squares on the opposite wall. Then he would go out, and lock the door behind him, leaving no message whatever for those crowds of importunate dealers, who, as Sheila fancied, were besieging him with offers in one hand and purses of gold in the other.

One morning, after she had been in-doors for two or three days, and had grown hopelessly tired of the monotony of watching that sunlit square, she was filled with an unconquerable longing to go away, for however brief a space, from the sight of houses. The morning was sweet, and clear, and bright, white clouds were slowly crossing a fair blue sky, and a fresh and cool breeze was blowing in at the open French windows.

“Bras,” she said, going down stairs and out into the small garden, “we are going into the country.”

The great deerhound seemed to know, and rose and came to her with great gravity, while she clasped on the leash. He was no frisky animal to show his delight by yelping and gamboling, but he laid his long nose in her hand, and slowly wagged the down-drooping curve of his shaggy tail; and then he placidly walked by her side up into the hall, where he stood awaiting her.

She would go along and beg of her husband to leave his work for a day, and go with her for a walk down to Richmond Park. She had often heard Mr. Ingram speak of walking down, and she remembered that much of the road was pretty. Why should not her husband have one holiday?

“It is such a shame,” she had said to him that morning as he left, “that you will be going into that gloomy place, with its bare walls and chairs, and the windows so that you cannot see out of them!”

“I must get some work done somehow, Sheila,” he said, although he did not tell her that he had not finished a picture since his marriage.

“I wish I could do some of it for you,” she said.

“You! All the work you’re good for is catching fish and feeding ducks and planting things in gardens. Why don’t you come down and feed the ducks in the Serpentine?”

“I should like to do that,” she answered. “I will go any day with you.”

“Well,” he said, “you see, I don’t know until I get along to the studio whether I can get away for the forenoon; and then if I were to come back here, you would have little or no time to dress. Good-bye, Sheila.”

“Good-bye,” she said to him; giving up the Serpentine without much regret.

But the forenoon had turned out so delightful that she thought she would go along to the studio, and hale him out of that gaunt and dingy apartment. She should take him away from town; therefore, she might put on that rough, blue dress in which she used to go boating in Loch Roag. She had lately smartened it up a bit with some white braid, and she hoped he would approve.

Did the big hound know the dress? He rubbed his head against her arm and hand when she came down, and looked up and whined almost inaudibly.

“You are going out, Bras, and you must be a good dog and not try to go after the deer. Then I will send a very good story of you to Mairi; and when she comes to London after the harvest is over, she will bring you a present from the Lewis, and you will be very proud.”

She went out into the square, and was, perhaps, a little glad to get away from it, as she was not sure of the blue dress and the small hat with its sea-gull’s feather being precisely the costume which she ought to wear. When she got into the Uxbridge road she breathed more freely, and in the lightness of her heart she continued the conversation with Bras, giving that attentive animal a vast amount of information, partly in English, partly in Gaelic, which he answered only by a low whine or a shake of his shaggy head.

But these confidences were suddenly interrupted. She had got down to Addison Terrace, and was contentedly looking at the trees and chatting to the dog, when by accident her eyes happened to light on a brougham that was driving past. In it – she beheld them both clearly for a brief second – were her husband and Mrs. Lorraine so engaged in conversation that neither of them saw her. Sheila stood on the pavement for a couple of minutes absolutely bewildered. All sorts of wild fancies and recollections came crowding in upon her – reasons why her husband was unwilling that she should visit his studio, why Mrs. Lorraine never called on her, and so forth, and so forth. She did not know what to think for a time; but presently all this tumult was stilled, and she had resolved her doubts and made up her mind as to what she should do. She would not suspect her husband – that was the one sweet security to which she clung. He had made use of no duplicity; if there were duplicity in the case at all he could not be the author of it. The reasons for his having of late left her so much alone were the true reasons. And if this Mrs. Lorraine should amuse him and interest him, who ought to grudge him this break in the monotony of his work? Sheila knew that she herself disliked going to those fashionable gatherings to which Mrs. Lorraine went, and to which Lavender had been accustomed to go before he was married. How could she expect him to give up all his old habits and pleasures for her sake? She would be more generous. It was her own fault that she was not a better companion for him, then, to think hardly of him because he went to the Park with a friend instead of going alone?

Yet there was a great bitterness and grief in her heart as she turned and walked on. She spoke no more to the deerhound by her side. There seemed to be less sunlight in the air, and the people and carriages passing were hardly so busy and cheerful and interesting as they had been. But all the same, she would go to Richmond Park, and by herself; for what was the use in calling in at the studio? and how could she go back home and sit in the house, knowing that her husband was away at some flower-show or morning concert, or some such thing, with that young American lady?

She knew no other road to Richmond than that by which they had driven shortly after her arrival in London; and so it was that she went down and over Hammersmith Bridge, and around by Mortlake, and so on by East Sheen. The road seemed terribly long. She was an excellent walker, and in ordinary circumstances would have done the distance without fatigue; but when at length she saw the gates of the Park before her, she was at once exceedingly tired and almost faint from hunger. Here was the hotel in which they had dined; should she enter? The place seemed very grand and forbidding; she had scarcely even looked at it as she went up the steps with her husband by her side. However, she would venture, and accordingly she went up into the vestibule, looking rather timidly about. A young gentleman, apparently not a waiter, approached her and seemed to wait for her to speak. It was a terrible moment. What was she to ask for? and could she ask it of this young man? Fortunately, he spoke first, and asked her if she wished to go into the coffee-room, and if she expected any one.

“No, I do not expect any one,” she said; and she knew that he would perceive the peculiarity of her accent; “but if you will be kind enough to tell me where I may have a biscuit – ”

It occurred to her that to go into the Star and Garter for a biscuit was absurd; and she added, wildly, “or anything to eat.”

The young man obviously regarded her with some surprise, but was very courteous, and showed her into the coffee-room and called a waiter to her. Moreover, he gave permission for Bras to be admitted into the room, Sheila promising that he would lie under the table and not budge an inch. Then she looked around. There were only three persons in the room – one, an old lady seated by herself in a far corner, the other two being a couple of young folks too much engrossed with each other to mind any one else. She began to feel more at home. The waiter suggested various things for lunch, and she made her choice of something cold. Then she mustered up courage to ask for a glass of sherry. How she would have enjoyed all this as a story to tell to her husband but for that incident of the morning! She would have gloried in her outward bravery, and made him smile with a description of her inward terror. She would have written about it to the old man in Borva, and bid him consider how she had been transformed, and what strange scenes Bras was now witnessing.

But all that was over. She felt as if she could no longer ask her husband to be amused by her childish experiences; and as for writing to her father, she dared not write to him in her present mood. Perhaps some happier time would come. Sheila paid her bill. She had heard her husband and Mr. Ingram talking about tipping waiters, and knew that she ought to give something to the man who had attended on her. But how much? He was a very august-looking person, with formally-cut whiskers and a severe expression of face. When he had brought back the change to her she timidly selected a half-crown and offered it to him. There was a little glance of surprise; she feared she had not given him enough. Then he said “Thank you!” in a vague and distant fashion, and she knew that she had not given him enough. But it was too late. Bras was summoned from under the table, and again she went out into the fresh air.

“Oh, my good dog!” she said to him, as they together walked up to the gates and into the Park, “this is a very extravagant country. You have to pay half-a-crown to a servant for bringing you a piece of cold pie, and then he looks as if he were not paid enough. And Duncan, who will do everything about the house, and will give us all our dinners, it’s only a pound a week he will get, and Scarlett has to be kept out of that. And wouldn’t you like to see poor old Scarlett again?”

Bras whined, as if he understood every word.

“I suppose now she is hanging out the washing on the gooseberry bushes, and you know the song she always used to sing then? Don’t you know that Scarlett carried me about long before you were born, for you are a mere infant compared with me? And she used to sing to me:

And that is what she is singing just now in the garden; and Mairi she is bringing the things out of the washing house. Papa is over in Stornoway this morning, arranging his accounts with the people there; and perhaps he is down at the quay, looking at the Clansman, and wondering when she is to bring me into the harbor. The castle is all shut up, you know, with cloths over all the wonderful things, and the curtains all down, and most of the shutters shut. Do you think papa has got my letter in his pocket, and does he read it over and over again, as I read all his letters to me over and over again? Ah-h! You bad dog!”