A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada

“I do,” he replied.

“But when men love, they – ”

George interrupted her.

“Dear Miss Archer, I have taken to you at once. I notice you do not use that detestable expression ‘in love.’ This is our Beginning. You were saying – ?”

“I was going to say, when men love they are never happy until they discover whether she loves them in return; uncertainty gives them no joy.”

“It does, they think it does not. That is just what I want to illustrate; when a man does know it, and she does love him, then he marries her, he is certain of her. He may become resigned, but he is not happy, and then – ”

“Yes, and then?”

“He is forever dissatisfied.”

“I thought women only were dissatisfied.”

“Men are, too,” said Mr. George; “I want to show the unhappiness of certainty. I know it.”

“This is our dance, Launa,” said Captain Carden, standing before her and endeavouring to show his proprietorship.

She did not rise. She looked at him and resented his calling her “Launa” as he did. He was not her friend. She disliked him. His jerky manner and his shifty eyes repelled her.

“Launa,” murmured Mr. George, “your name? and it was surely not given by your godfathers and godmothers?”

“Our dance,” said Captain Carden again.

“I will tell you about my name,” she said, “by and by.”

The band was playing a waltz. In spite of herself she felt gay, inspirited. To Captain Carden it was as all other waltzes. He was tired of dancing with young ladies who bored him, and equally weary of ladies who plainly showed they thought him not worthy of a look or a word.

Launa came as a change and a relief. She had intense vitality and energy; a waltz always affected her; it made her glad or sad. She loved the music, the motion, and she looked so desirable.

Captain Carden was not sure whether she was beautiful or not. He wanted to hear someone else say it; he distrusted his own opinion; he had no self-confidence. She was eligible, virtue of virtues; he was a man, she a woman, and as such glad to get him. Did a woman ever refuse a man with his advantages? Never.

Dancing gave Launa more colour. She waltzed several times round the room with him. He danced badly, and held her too close. They stopped. Her hair was ruffled. She stood near him, and he longed to possess her, to own her, to kiss her until she was breathless. His eyes shone as he looked at her. How he would reform her. She would long for his words; she would yearn for his caresses.

“Isn’t that a reviving waltz?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied almost impulsively.

Her presence was reviving, not the music. After this she danced with Mr. George, and explained her captivating name to him. He said he adored it.

“As a Beginning,” she suggested.

“Yes,” he answered instantly.

Then he asked leave to call upon her father to explain his recently published book of Proverbs. He offered to bring a copy with him, and she accepted his offer, for he greatly amused her.

She met another man, called Wainbridge. He also expressed his intention of calling at Victoria Mansions. He called himself a musician, though he did not play any instrument; she promised to play for him.

“He will be Lord Wainbridge some day,” said Mrs. Phillips, as they drove home together. “His uncle has no children by this wife. If she were to die!” Lily Phillips shuddered, “there is another, a young woman with sons.”

“He must be a beast,” said Launa.

“No, not necessarily, only a victim to circumstances, and she is very pretty. I think Mr. Wainbridge knows her. Lady Wainbridge is a horror; she is a Plymouth sister, and wears bombazine always, and a front. She was only evangelical when he married her, and he considered she possessed the possibilities of the good wife, and he expected an heir. He has suffered intensely.”

“Rubbish,” said Launa, “the other woman suffers.”

“You may be sure he has settled all he can on her,” said Lily Phillips, “for I suppose she does suffer, principally because she is not his wife. I often wish I knew her. I wonder if she feels wicked. It would be interesting to know any one living on a volcano, as she does. His wife might die, he might marry a young and innocent girl. Men like their wives to be ignorant of their vices and peculiar passions until after marriage – then – Well, good-night. It was a very cheery ball. You liked it?”

“Immensely,” answered Launa.

“You are very young, Launa. You think men love once. You would not care for a man who could love you and kiss another woman?”

“He could not love me then.”

“My dear, men are different. There is passion and love, and not always felt for the same woman. Love and passion last; passion alone – Bah! it is nothing.”

“Nothing,” repeated Launa.

“It is an impulse; it goes, and they love you again.”

Some days after the ball they were all at tea at Mrs. Phillips’s – Mr. Wainbridge, Launa, Mr. George, and others. The two men had already called on Mr. Archer, and had been invited to dine.

“I want above all things in the world,” said Launa slowly, “to drive a hansom, to sit up high and see the world.”

“I bet you five pounds you can’t,” said Mr. George. “I beg your pardon. But I am sure you can’t.”

She laughed. “I will.”

“How will you climb up?” asked Mrs. Phillips.

“Easily. I will do it at night.”

“And drive me,” Mr. George said. “I will pay you. Don’t overcharge.”

“Take me too,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“You may both come,” answered Launa gaily.

“You must all dine here to-morrow night,” said Lily Phillips. “Launa, make your arrangements, and get it over.”

It was after dinner. Launa and Mr. George had been delightful. Mr. Wainbridge was suffering from his feelings for her; he could not be frivolous. The carriage came for Miss Archer, who sent it away.

“Come,” she said. “Good-night, Lily, I am going to drive. Jacobs got me a hansom, and has arranged it all for me. Do hurry,” she said to Mr. George. “I feel so excited.”

She put on a long driving coat, a little cap, and a very large silk handkerchief, which went round her neck, and covered the lower part of her face completely.

Mrs. Phillips came out to the door.

“We can’t start here,” said Launa; “the hansom is in a narrow street close by.”

They found it waiting just round the corner.

“Get in quickly,” she said.

“I won’t,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “until you are up. Don’t do it. I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Rubbish,” she replied. “I am going by the back streets. I know the way, so does the mare. I am driving Nell, you know.”

She climbed up and arranged the rugs.

“It is splendid, it gives one such a grip. Let her go.”

They dashed off with a clatter. The mare evidently was pulling.

“I never thought she would do it,” said Mr. George.

“I wish to Heaven she had not tried,” said the other.

“Get out, then,” said Mr. George. “Shall I stop her?”

“No! If she is killed, I’ll be killed too!”

Mr. George laughed quietly with intense enjoyment. They drove through dark streets. Launa had been coached by Jacobs which way to go. In one place where it was brightly lighted there was a public-house and a policeman. She drove slowly. Mr. Wainbridge glanced with apprehension at the stalwart supporter of law.

Then they turned a corner, and stopped in front of Victoria Mansions. Jacobs was waiting. Launa got down.

“It was perfectly celestial,” she said. “I never enjoyed anything so much in my life.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. George, “though I owe you five pounds. There is something romantic in being driven by a woman, and that woman you, and you drive so well. I am callous when I remember that five pounds, though I was alarmed about you.”

“Of course I would not take it,” she said.

Mr. Wainbridge looked white. He helped her to take off her coat.

“You will never do it again,” he said. “Promise – never.”

She laughed softly.

“I shall do it perhaps if I want to.”

“Only with me.”

The tone was beseeching.

“No, no, with anyone I choose.”

After they left, Launa went into her father’s work-room.

“I drove to-night,” she said. “Mr. George and Mr. Wainbridge came in the hansom, and I drove it.”

“You drove a hansom cab?”

“Yes, I feel very proud, so don’t tell me I ought not to be.”

“You should be ashamed, and I must scold you.”

“Ah, no. You are a dear.”

“Was it a successful party? You like Mrs. Phillips?”

“I like her very much… Do men love women – often?”

Her father looked at her, but it was evidently a problem question, not as it affected herself, but others.

“Yes,” he replied.

“They talk so much about it.”

“I suppose so. You have.. no theories, no experience, I suppose?”

“No, I think a man in love must be rather a bore. Good-night, I am very sleepy.”

“Don’t drive any more hansoms, Launa.”

“Very well, father, I won’t.”

CHAPTER VII

Mr. Archer had gone on a trip to Norway.

Mrs. Phillips was at Marlow with some friends, Mr. Herbert was there also.

Mrs. Phillips had written to Launa telling her the new shirts were becoming and the new punt a success. From this Launa gathered that Mr. Herbert, as well as the punt, was agreeable. Lily had too much experience to give in to his supplications at once, or to agree with him that love was of any avail in life. She said marriage rhymed with carriage very properly, and love with nothing. Besides, she was aware that after a woman has said “I love you” frequently there is nothing left to say.

Launa was all alone.

This particular afternoon she had arrayed herself in a wonderful tea-gown – a combination of Greece and Paris with flashes of audacity thrown in, green and cream and gold – it was loose where it is pretty to be loose, and tight where it showed the curves of her figure.

She was playing to herself – Chopin and Wagner. Her wrists had gained in strength, her tone in volume, and her mind – that, too, had gained in experience and insight. The world was opening to her – undreamt of possibilities intruded sometimes – but Lily’s ideas of taking the goods the gods give to-day while never thinking of to-morrow, were attractive. Yet Launa could not forget Paul; in her heart she believed in the future “Goldene Zeit” which must come.

It was impossible for her to realise that she could not command fate – destiny. She had assumed the command once, that day with Paul, and now she regretted it. She could not write to him; everything was against that, and if he were to come over, as she often hoped he would, how much better would it be? The Indian girl came between them. She knew her father would never consent to any marriage between herself and Paul. Launa had cultivated an ideal of women’s behaviour to other women; they should always support the wronged woman, even when it means losing a hearts desire. Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire she had derived much joy from this theory, now she realised that no one can be happy on a theory.

She played a Chopin study: relentless fate – a chilling, creeping fiend of Impossibility – went through it, which mocked the delusive sound of far-away joy and happiness somewhere – the indefinite somewhere.

She heard a faint rustle of a portière behind her, but she played on. When it was over she put her head in her hands, then let her hands fall with a crash upon the keys. The sound expressed her feelings, the discord was a relief.

“How do you do?” said some one softly behind her.

She started and turned round to see Mr. Wainbridge. There were tears in her eyes enough to soften them as she looked up at him. She did not rise hurriedly, or look startled as the majority of women would have done, but held out her hand, which he took.

“Shall I go away?” he asked. He admired every detail of her appearance, and the look in her eyes surprised him. “You would like to be alone and I cannot bear to leave you,” he said slowly, while still holding her hand.

His expression and intonation were not lost on her – they meant power in herself; he could not leave her; and the desire of power comes after love in the aspirations of some women.

“No, stay,” she said. “Sit down.”

He chose a chair near her and the silence was restful – most women consider it fatal. He had begun to compare her with other women.

“You heard my discord?”

“I heard it,” he replied.

“And interpreted it?”

“No, I cannot say that.”

“I will play to you,” she said, rising with a quick litheness which reminded him of a serpent.

She played Liszt’s arrangement of Mendelssohn’s “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges.”

“Thank you; I have enjoyed it intensely,” he said, when she had finished. “ ‘Thank you’ is poor – it cannot express my meaning. You play magnificently.”

“I am glad you think so,” she replied. “When you came I was wishing I could do nothing. You understand? To acquiesce is happiness if one knows no better.”

“But if one does know? Believe me, acquiescence is misery. The wings of song carried you somewhere far away?”

“How do you know?” she asked suddenly. “To fight, to be, and to do, are the best.”

“Like our childish friend the verb; you have left out to suffer,” he suggested softly.

She laughed, and he felt baffled.

“Let us go and have tea.”

“On the principle of feed a man when he bores you,” Mr. Wainbridge said with irritation.

“No, not at all. I love my tea, and it will be cold. Tell me first how you like my music-room? It is my own particular abode; you were admitted by mistake.”

“May I be admitted again?”

“Perhaps – tell me about my room?”

He had forgotten to look at the surroundings. The room was long, and rather high – the walls were a dull rich cream colour; quantities of flowers were arranged everywhere, principally irises with their long leaves, in immense dull brown jars. Standing near the piano was a eucalyptus tree, its dull grey-green leaves hung over Launa. Green, brown, and cream were the colours in the room, with red here and there – the warm red of autumn leaves.

“The room suits you,” he replied.

Mr. Wainbridge found personal conversation was over with the change of room. She talked of the last new book, and of bicycling. He made himself agreeable. He was a prudent young man, and well received everywhere; plain daughters of dukes and marquises were glad to talk to him – he was a Possibility; there was a doubt owing to his uncle and the Plymouth Sister. There was a legend about Mr. Wainbridge that he once had loved someone of the lower classes – the someone was indefinite – it was supposed she had died or married. Some people gave Mr. Wainbridge credit for the virtue of forsaking her.

They had finished tea when Mr. George was announced. He had a large book with him. It was his own book of proverbs, and he brought it to present to Launa.

“Precept is better than example,” he began. “Don’t you think so, Wainbridge? I always have set a good example, but – ”

“Mrs. Carden,” said the maid, and the rest of Mr. George’s sentence was lost in the rustle of that lady’s entrance.

She was arrayed principally in bugles. She looked war-like, and as if she might suddenly sound the call to battle on one of her ornaments.

Launa introduced the men to her. Mrs. Carden accepted tea, and observed that George was away.

“I am here,” whispered Mr. George softly. “Does she want me?”

Launa frowned at him.

“Yes,” she replied; “he is in Norway. I heard from him to-day.”

“I am sure Mrs. Carden will agree with me,” said Mr. George agreeably, “about proverbs. Precept is better than example. Miss Launa, your father plainly thinks so. He is away enjoying himself. He sets you a bad example, but his precepts are excellent. My edition of the proverbs is so convincing.”

Mrs. Carden gazed at him, her cake in her hand half-way to her mouth, which was open.

“Is it really precept is better than example? Did Solomon say it? I only know his proverbs. I brought my son up on them.”

She was rather at sea as to Mr. George’s position, he seemed so self-assured and so moral. Could he be the head of a new sect, or the editor of a paper?

“Solomon says, ‘The lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb,’ ” said Mrs. Carden. “He is a very wise man.”

“That is not a mere precept,” said Mr. Wainbridge softly. “He said it from experience.”

“Solomon’s example was variable,” said George.

“But he was very wise,” observed Mrs. Carden.

“Very,” said George solemnly. “Precept is better than example.”

“What?” she asked, “surely you have made a mistake, and the true version is ‘example is better than precept.’ ”

She wore an air of triumph, and glanced proudly round her.

“Mr. George is writing a book,” said Launa, “on proverbs. He is – ”

“Correcting the faults of the world,” said Mr. George, humbly.

“A necessary task,” said Mrs. Carden, “in these degenerate days. Mr. McCarthy, who preaches at St. Luke’s, Launa (I advise you to go and hear him), is a son of Dr. Willis, in the faith – ”

“What a good name. I did not know that was what they called it,” said Mr. George softly; “but add in love – in faith and love.”

“Miss Archer was playing to me,” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Have you heard her?”

He addressed his question to Mrs. Carden, who appeared perturbed.

“No. I am sure she can play. But I dislike music excessively. I played myself once; and my son has a flute. I find it disturbing.”

“There is so much wind needed for the flute,” said Mr. George. “It is an instrument which reminds one of a hurricane.”

“I love a penny whistle,” said Launa. “I can play ‘Honey, my honey,’ on mine.”

“Play it now,” said Mr. George. “Please, Miss Archer. I really cannot call you Miss Archer any longer. Miss Launa is so much prettier; and Launa is the prettiest name in the world.”

“You may call me Launa if you like. I never was called Miss Archer as much as I have been since I came to England. I will play the penny whistle for you some day. Mrs. Carden would not like it now.”

“Pray do not mind me; I must go. I am always at home at half-past five; I dine at six. I came, my dear Launa, to ask you to come and spend a few quiet days with me while your father is away. Charlie is also away.”

“Thank you. It is very kind of you to think of me,” replied Launa. “I cannot come and stay, for I promised my father I would not leave the flat just now. You see all our servants are new, and he would not like me to leave them alone.”

“How terrible if they danced in your music room,” said Mr. Wainbridge, with a smile.

“Terrible,” said Launa.

“There is no reason why we should not dance there,” observed Mr. George. “Example! precept! Let us dance.”

“I think, Launa, it would be much better for you to come to the shelter of an English home, during the time of your father’s absence. It is not proper for you to remain here alone.”

“I prefer a Canadian shelter,” said Launa, with sweetness.

“Are you having music lessons, dear Launa?” asked Mrs. Carden. “And have you taken up any serious study, yet?”

“I go to Herr Winderthal’s twice a week and play for him, and with him. He has two other men for the violin and the ’cello; we play trios and quartettes. You know the quartette with ‘Die Forelle,’ motif by Schubert?”

“Alone?” inquired Mrs. Carden, with apprehension.

“Alone? No. Three people play in a trio, and four in a quartette,” said Launa.

Mr. George laughed, and said: —

“No one will listen to me. And I do so want to explain my proverb to you, Miss Launa. You see, if a woman has a brutal temper she does absolutely as she likes, and never sets an example; her precepts are obeyed, she has a good time, the best; and you see a saint whose example is quite heavenly, does any one imitate her? No, they only make her do more, work harder, and set a better example. Then they admire her.”

“You have met that woman?” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Several of them,” said the other.

“Good-bye,” began Mrs. Carden. “I am disappointed in you, Launa.”

Launa did not inquire the reason of her disappointment, but shook hands with her, accompanying her to the door, followed by the two men.

“Come to me when you are in difficulties,” said Mrs. Carden. “Your housemaids – ”

She waved her parasol as the lift bore her down, and went home in a state of agitation; for in the future Launa would have great possessions, and the Carden exchequer was low. Could it be that the young man with the proverbs had discovered this? That he would desire Launa?

She resolved to invite herself to lunch with Launa the next Sunday, and to make Charlie call the day of his return.

CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Carden drove home in a hansom, a strange and unusual extravagance. At Launa’s she had been bewildered – the conversation was so difficult to understand, so full of proverbs and of Solomon.

In the hansom Mrs. Carden would think well. She turned the situation over in her mind and stopped at a telegraph office to send Charlie a telegram. He was fishing with some uninteresting cousins in Kent. Mrs. Carden sent for her friend and confidante, Miss Sims. Miss Sims had been fat, she now was thin, and weighed only seven stone – she gloried in thin arms and a scraggy neck, and told everybody about herself in a sad voice. It is better to be poor and lean than poor and fat, the rich ask one to dine more frequently.

Mrs. Carden told her lean friend as much of the subject as was necessary for her to know.

Mrs. Carden’s principles were good – on principle. She was firmly persuaded that Charlie was deeply, virginly in love with Launa, and that Launa was wandering – was being attracted by strange men who talked of books and pianos with intimacy, and of proverbs. At first she had an idea that Mr. George was a leader of some kind. From the sheltered seclusion of beyond Bayswater she had read the papers, and had heard that at one fashionable church the clergyman lectured on dress in the pulpit, while his wife wore a becoming cassock in the chancel. Miss Sims and Mrs. Carden took counsel together, and the result thereof was that Charlie loved Launa, and Launa must see the advantage of such affection.

Mrs. Carden sent Launa a post-card, saying she would go to lunch the next Sunday at two o’clock. If Launa was obliged to go out, she must leave lunch for her relative, and empty rooms – Mrs. Carden adored rooms without their owners.

Mrs. Phillips was still staying at Marlow; Mr. Herbert, too, was there. She was in the uncomfortable situation of indecision; he in an equally uncomfortable one. He had made up his mind, but a solitary mind which has determined on its own course of action is weariness, because for happiness it requires the acquiescence of the other person, and Lily would not agree that what would make him happy would necessarily make her so.

Her doubt had not spoiled her appetite, the arrangement of her neckties, nor any one of those details to which a well-dressed woman is always attentive, but it did spoil the sunshine and the river; the wind in the rushes made her shiver, and the backwaters were lonely and too convenient for episodes. The locks and people were delightful; the puffing of steam launches was a sound of joy. She took to rowing, and suffered tortures afterwards from stiff arms and a stiffer back. When she did not row, Mr. Herbert did; she sat in the stern and discoursed to him, and he enjoyed her conversation. The boat was delightful: it was quite cranky, and neither person dared to move about; conversation with three yards between them must be of the day and not of the feelings, or if feelings are mentioned, one means those delightful, unexplainable sensations which are merely useful as subjects of conversation, and do not agitate one sufficiently to make one uncomfortable.

At the end of a month Mrs. Phillips went up to Paddington. Mr. Herbert accompanied her; they sat in opposite corners of the carriage, and she read the Lady’s Pictorial while he smoked. At Paddington they parted, and she drove to Victoria Mansions to stay with Launa.

Mr. Wainbridge was there, and they were having tea. Mrs. Phillips found it cool and restful, and the sensation of being not the first and only woman was novel and possessed a reposeful charm. They were arguing about music, and the room was full of flowers.

When Launa received Mrs. Carden’s post-card she threw it to her friend Lily.