Читать книгу The Golden Violet - Marjorie Bown - Страница 6

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ANGEL looked into her purse of lilac knitted silk; there were a few gold pieces and some silver; she felt giddy, a little sick and ready to cry.

"I shall have to ask him for money," she said to herself feebly; all her usual resources were cut off, she had only her husband on whom to rely; amid the laughing, admiring crowd that had pressed round her carriage at the churchyard gate had been the anxious, reproachful face of Lettice Dinnies; the memory of this filled Angel with a sour remorse; not only her aunt, but her unloved parents seemed to reproach her for a rebellious folly.

These three people, one living, two dead, seemed to drag at her, to impede her liberty; she had been generous to all of them, but she had never given them affection, and that seemed to hurt now, while the long sustained hatred that she had had for Mrs. Dinnies stung horribly in the recollection; what a dismal reflection it was that she had never loved anyone—and why did it come to her now?

She had been married a few hours and she was in a smart, up-to-date hotel at Blackfriars; there were two days to wait before the Canterbury Fair left the Thames for Kingston; this interval of time yawned before Angel like a gulf fixed between the old life and the new. The place was comfortable, but not at all to her taste; everything was drab and quiet-toned, of a greenish hue, as if one day the nearby river had overflowed into the room and stained everything the colour of dirty, stagnant water. Angel was oppressed by the dark prints of the battles of Waterloo and Trafalgar that hung in her private parlour and by the holland blinds adjusted so straight over the long narrow windows.

She was agitated also because the clever maid whom she had engaged to travel with her had not arrived and because only a few of her cases were in the hall; the wagonette with her principal pieces of luggage was such a long time on the road!

Her husband, too, was unaccountably absent; he had left her, he said, to go and arrange everything for her comfort on board the Canterbury Fair, but surely this was an odd time to choose—"just when I feel so lonely and wretched," sighed Angel, "just when we have got married!" But when he entered that odious, trim parlour, Angel shrank together and wished for her interrupted solitude.

The sun never entered this northward room, and now, in the late afternoon, it was full of dull shadow, through which the thick-set figure of Thomas Thicknesse seemed to Angel to loom with a formidable density of outline.

She tried to be coquettish, to imitate one of her own heroines in gracious condescension towards the favoured male.

"Oh, you gave me a fright, leaving me so long alone! I didn't know what to do or think! And that woman—the maid—has never come, I told her five o'clock, and only one or two pieces of luggage have arrived."

Mr. Thicknesse closed the door and crossed over to his wife; for so heavy a man he walked lightly and softly. He took the stiff chair opposite the settee, where she spread her parti-coloured silks, put a shapely hand on each plump knee and spoke deliberately: "My dear girl, what possible need was there for you to feel any anxiety or agitation? Everything you could want was to your hand. And you desired me to leave you alone—you wished, you said, to recover your spirits."

"Oh, I don't know what I said, I'm sure!" Angel was piqued at her husband's cool tone; flushed and hurt, she dabbed her eyes and added, "The maid—and the luggage—"

"I prevented the maid from coming, and it was not possible to take all those cases."

Angel stared; an uncomfortable and unbecoming colour rose in her face.

Mr. Thicknesse smiled.

"You will soon become used to someone's managing your affairs."

"But I want a maid!"

"Have you always had one?"

"No—but at home Dorothy always helped me—"

"It would be absurd for you to take a servant to Jamaica. I have told you how many slaves I have—"

"But on the voyage—-"

"You will have nothing to do but look after yourself."

"And my luggage—"

"I have left behind, in storage, most of the ornaments, books and pictures—they would have been absurd in Jamaica."

"Absurd! You keeping saying absurd!" cried Angel, angered out of her fear and embarrassment.

"I've only said it twice," replied Mr. Thicknesse coolly, "but it does express exactly what I mean—about some other things too."

"Oh, what am I to hear now! And on our wedding day!"

"It is only fair, my dear, to tell what I want—from the first."

Angel set her teeth in her handkerchief and stared, so surprised that her expression was that of a spoilt child, who suddenly finds herself scolded.

Mr. Thicknesse, neither moving his position, nor taking his glance from his wife, continued:

"Your name—you must change that, you know. People would laugh were I to call you Angel—or even Angelica. You have a second name—I saw it on the register when yon signed. Mary, is it not?"

"Yes, because of my godmother," Angel found herself answering mechanically.

"Very well. We will have that, if you please, Mary Thicknesse. You can still have the other name on your books, there it is quite right. Then—your clothes."

"My clothes!" Angel caught at her flounces.

"Yes. Forgive me. I don't like them. Ladies in the West Indies don't dress so. You must not have all those colours, ornaments and trimmings."

"I must not!"

"Indeed, you must not. You have had no one to tell you what you should do, and you have been spending money very foolishly, I fear. What else could have been expected? You were from the country and poor Mrs. Dinnies was no guide."

Mr. Thicknesse smiled, not quite pleasantly, and Angel drew away slightly against the hard mahogany back of the stiff settee. "It was my own money," she said foolishly.

Mr. Thicknesse rose with the air of a man who brings a business interview to an end.

"But now, my dear, your money, like yourself, belongs to me, and it will be my duty to see that it is wisely spent."

She studied him as he stood there, with an eager keenness, as if she had never seen him before; this was the first time that she had been deeply interested in anyone save herself. He seemed an utter stranger, this heavy man in the bottle-green coat with the well-goffered shirt frills and high black stock, with the flat comely face with broad features and thick hair brushed up on the top of his head—the neatly-trimmed whiskers and full chin; he seemed quite different from the man who had wooed her with such casual masterfulness, whose every word and glance had held such an air of tenderness and regard.

"My name, my clothes, my money," she said on a great sigh.

"My dear girl, there is no need to be upset—you've got, naturally enough, too many romantic notions in your head. You must learn to separate your books—and the stuff you put into them, from real life."

"Perhaps you don't like my books either?"

For the first time, since he had entered the room, Mr. Thicknesse appeared to hesitate.

"I don't suppose you wrote them for me—I should say they suit their market very well. They're successful, at least."

Angel answered harshly.

"You said that you first cared for me—through my books—"

"Did I? Well, so I did. Some one pointed you out to me at Lydia Toulmin's and said you earned over a thousand a year by writing for the circulating libraries."

"What do you mean by that?"

Mr. Thicknesse smiled.

"Why, my dear child. I was so impressed that I got hold of a copy of—one of them—and I may say I was most surprised—most gratified."

"You're making fun of me," Angel began to cry in bitter vexation; her husband was unperturbed.

"You must not—must not, Mary, be foolish. I meant what I said. Now, think a moment, why should I laugh at you? I should be very glad if I could earn a thousand pounds a year."

He seated himself beside her and took the limp hand that lay on the lap of her green silk dress.

"You're a clever little woman and you'll be a pretty little woman too, when you have the right clothes on."

She sobbed, her head averted from him.

"I like my clothes."

"You'll soon learn differently." He loosened her hand and pinched up a fold of her skirt. "Look what an ugly green this is. And yellow flowers on it, then a blue bodice and an orange shawl—and there are too many ribbons and flowers on your hat and far too many trinkets about your person."

"What should I wear?" asked Angel, interested in spite of herself.

"For the voyage, the quietest things you have—if you have none—those I have ordered for you, which you will find in your bedroom. When we arrive at Kingston, you can have everything new and suitable."

Angel was slightly appeased, but still uneasy.

"I want some money, please."

"Why? I shall pay for everything."

"I want to send fifty guineas to my aunt."

"Indeed, my dear, your aunt is well provided for. She had bled you long enough."

"I want some money for myself."

"Impossible." Mr. Thicknesse rose. "You are becoming over excited. I suppose it has been an exhausting day for you." He smiled in a kindly fashion. "I shall ask them to send you a little dinner on a tray to your room—I shall take mine here."

As Angel remained on the settee, staring, with her handkerchief half-way to her face, completely at a loss, Mr. Thicknesse took her hand, escorted her to the door, opened it, and bowed her out.

"Your room is up that little flight of stairs—I am sure, my love, that you will find everything very comfortable."

IT WAS A HANDSOME BEDROOM, with a large toilet closet attached; the starched white dimity of the furnishings had a cold look that was dreary even on this close summer day. And the window, curtained in dark blue, gave on to a courtyard, so that there was very little light.

Angel looked at herself anxiously in the round mirror above the table with the basin and ewer in white earthenware. Never had she thought herself so plain. Excitement, too much wine and tears had flushed her face in unbecoming patches, her hair had fallen in thick locks across her forehead and the bright colours, the green, blue, yellow and orange, that she had chosen with such pleasure did seem to set off very ill the tints of her complexion; how was it that she had never noticed this before?

She had already lost confidence in herself; her vague unformed mind hesitated between rebellion and submission.

There were boxes on the floor, of that familiar striped cardboard used by her own mantua-makers; under the string of one of them was tucked a note. From Mrs. Dinnies:

My darling Angel, Your future husband asked me to order these for you to wear on the voyage. He asked me and Mrs. Minton not to say anything about it. Everything is to your size, but I dare say you won't like them. Your affectionate aunt, Lettice Dinnies.

"The sly old beast!" cried Angel. "I'm glad I didn't get the money for her!"

She tore open the packets, clothes in grey, white and black. "I shall look like a widow—I wish I were one."

She kicked the offending garments all over the floor; what right had he, what right? Was she never to be her own mistress? Was there always to be someone, not only to dictate to her, but to take her money?

Her money! The words brought her up sharply in the midst of her fretful outburst; she suddenly saw her situation with horrid clarity.

Of course, her husband had all her money, the ten or eleven thousand pounds she had had in the funds, all her savings, which good, careful Mr. Heron had been looking after for her—all the money from the sale of the lease of her house, her furniture, her ornaments—everything! The small amount in her purse represented her sole independent fortune.

WHEN THE CANDLES had been brought in and a well-cooked supper served on the papier-mâché table, painted with a view of the Scottish highlands, Angel began to take a more cheerful view of her future.

She had tried on the robes and gowns of her husband's choosing, and found them becoming; she wore one now, grey, with a silver stripe, and she had brushed out her pale tresses, until they were like a length of satin, then looped them up with coral pins.

Her features, bathed and dusted with rice powder, did not look so ill; she had enjoyed her supper, having eaten, she realised, nothing all day, and her mood became peaceful, even tender.

What did the money matter? All married women were dependent on their husbands—besides, she would see, in the future, that all the bills for her work were paid directly to her—he had said that she should have that for herself—her own earnings. He was a wealthy man.

She began to be impatient for his return, for she had almost persuaded herself that she had fallen in love with his masterful ways. "A pretty little woman," he had said, and the words hung in her mind as the most delicious compliment she had ever received. As she sat, with her elbows on the lacquered table after the tray had been removed, dreaming and drowsy, she forgot the vexatious trivialities of the day and her mind became absorbed in visions of romantic love.

How often had she written of brides and marriages, of "coy maidens" being led to "nuptial bowers," of ardent lovers clasping their "reluctant fair ones" and how little she knew about it.

Her virgin pen had written for readers presumably also virgin and her romances had always ended on the threshold of the bridal chamber, before the long threatened but implacable chastity of the heroine had been sacrificed on the altar of Hymen.

But Angel had had her secret speculations as to the mysteries of love; although she was shut out from the confidences of matrons, her position as a novelist had given her certain privileges beyond those usually accorded to spinsters, and both Mrs. Dinnies and Lydia Toulmin had given her hints that the idealistic passions she described so movingly in her lovely books were very different from the emotions that really brought together and sundered mere men and women.

Now she was about to discover for herself if it was hateful or delightful to be a married woman. She walked up and down the room and wished that there was a long mirror that she might see herself full length; her metal stays which gave her such a small waist and so neat a figure irked her flesh, and her stiff petticoats, her grey dress plastered with braidings, flouncings, and padded cords was heavy and uncomfortable; her head ached from the large clumsy pins in her hair; her person, like the room, was hidden by drapery, by ornaments, until its original shape and meaning were forgotten.

She went to the window and tugged aside the heavy curtains; the candlelight shone and scattered on the brick wall opposite with an air of dreariness; Angel felt as if she were in prison; she continued to stare stupidly at that enclosing wall, and to dwell childishly and with unbelief on things that she had written about so fluently and that she did not understand.

With a pang of self-pity she recalled a little round tree of red hawthorn, like a bouquet of flowers, cut and trimmed. It had grown in the meadows outside her father's parsonage, and once, when it had been in bloom, she had lingered there to pull herself a posy of the tiny blossoms.

It had been a perfect little moment; as she had tucked the flowers into the bosom of her frock of Indian cotton, she had felt an inner assurance of future happiness that was like an ecstasy.

She had looked over the sunny grasses as if she had expected to see them divided by an approaching lover; the meadows had been empty, but her delight had remained unblemished.

That promise had never been fulfilled; after years of waiting there was only—Thomas Thicknesse.

Angel dropped the curtains; the cool night air had set the candles guttering, between the long, straight draperies the bed was a depth of shade; she opened one of her valises and took out the thin sheets of paper on which she was writing her story, The Golden Violet; she was so used to taking refuge in the unreality she herself had created out of her confused and ill-fed fancy.

While she was on her knees with the empty case before her, there was a careful tap on the door. Angel was too agitated to speak, the door opened and her husband entered; he looked at her quizzically.

"Have you everything that you want?" he asked, in a pleasant, detached manner.

A wave of incoherent emotion swept over Angel; it seemed to her that nothing he could have said could be as odious as these few silly words; she half rose and committed the first violent action of her life; with a clumsy movement she threw at him the neat packet tied with buttercup-coloured ribbons: it fell short in the centre of the smooth wide bed that divided them and Angel began to weep noisily.

"Good night," said Mr. Thicknesse, still smiling, and left her, closing the door discreetly.

When he returned from the cock fight at "The Rotunda" she was asleep, lying fully dressed in the grey gown of his careful choice, across the prim hotel coverlets, the dim night lamp burning behind a screen on the hearth.

Mr. Thicknesse looked at his bride; his expression was impassive; he was, in his modest way, a philosopher and a man who was used to concealing his feelings; he tiptoed into the toilet closet where there was a camp-bed and cautiously closed the door between Angel and himself.