Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however, saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he could make no move in life at all without being its hero — that, of course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to day — and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game at all.
It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping somewhat apart from his fellow-men — too frequent contact must have destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his individuality, and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.
There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of dead men’s bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.
But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a great family.
He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider, regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of Illusions.
Nevertheless he felt the necessity of some prominent action that would still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself as his father’s probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back, Harry’s existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.
Harry’s return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole, borne it very well, and had come to the conclusion that succeeding his father would have entailed the performance of many wearisome duties; but that future being denied him, it was more than ever necessary to seize some opportunity of personal distinction.
The discussion as to the destruction of the Cove had seemed to offer him every chance of attaining a prominent position. The matter had grown in importance every day. Pendragon had divided into two separate and sharply-distinguished camps, one standing valiantly by its standard of picturesque tradition and its hatred of modern noise and materialism, the other asserting loudly its love of utility and progress, derisively pointing the finger of scorn at old-world Conservatism run mad and an incredible affection for defective drainage. Garrett had flung himself heart and soul (as he said) into the latter of these parties, and, feeling that this was a chance of distinction that fortune was not likely to offer him again in the near future, appeared frequently at discussions and even on one occasion in the Town Hall spoke.
But he was surprised and disappointed; he found that he had nothing to say, the truth being that he was much more interested in Garrett than in the Cove, and that his audience had come to listen to the second of these two subjects rather than the first. He found himself shelved; he was most politely told that he was not wanted, and he retired into his carpet-slippers again after one of those terrible quarters of an hour when he peeped past the curtain and saw a miserable, naked puppet shivering in a grey world, and that puppet was Garrett Trojan.
Then suddenly a second opportunity presented itself. Robin’s trouble was unexpectedly reassuring. This, he told himself, was the very thing. If he could only prove to the world that he had dealt successfully with practical matters in a practical way, he need never worry again. Let him deal with this affair promptly and resourcefully, as a man of the world and a true Trojan, and his position was assured. He must obtain the letters and at once. He spent several pleasant hours picturing the scene in which he returned the letters to Robin. He knew precisely the moment, the room, the audience that he would choose — he had decided on the words that he would speak, but he was not sure yet as to how he would obtain the letters.
He thought over it for three days and came to no conclusion. It ought not to be difficult; the girl was probably one of those common adventuresses of whom one heard so often. He had never actually met one — they did not suit carpet-slippers — but one knew how to deal with them. It was merely a matter of tact and savoir-faire.
Yes, it would be fun when he flourished the letters in the face of the family; how amazed Clare would be and how it would please Robin! — and then he suddenly awoke to the fact that time was getting on, and that he had done nothing. And, after all, there were only two possible lines of action — to write or to seek a personal interview. Of these he infinitely preferred the first. He need not leave his room, he could direct operations from his arm-chair, and he could preserve that courtesy and decorum that truly befitted a Trojan. But he had grave fears that the letter would not be accepted; Robin’s had been scorned and his own might suffer the same fate — no, he was afraid that it must be a personal interview.
He had come to this conclusion reluctantly, and now he hesitated to act on it; she might be violent, and he felt that he could not deal with melodrama. But the thought of ultimate victory supported him. The delicious surprise of it, the gratitude, the security of his authority from all attack for the rest of his days! Ah yes, it was worth it.
He dressed carefully in a suit of delicate grey, wearing, as he did on all public occasions, an eyeglass. He took some time over his preparations and drank a whisky and soda before starting; he had secured the address from Robin, without, he flattered himself, any discovery as to the reason of his request. 10 Seaview Terrace! Ah yes, he knew where that was — a gloomy back street, quite a fitting place for such an affair.
He was still uncertain as to the plan of campaign, but he could not conceive it credible that any young woman in any part of the British Empire would stand up long against a Trojan — it would, he felt certain, prove easy.
He noticed with pleasure the attention paid to him by the down-at-heels servant — it was good augury for the success of the interview. He lowered his voice to a deep bass whilst asking for Miss Feverel, and he fixed his eyeglass at a more strikingly impressive angle. He looked at women from four points of view, and he had, as it were, a sliding scale of manners on which he might mark delicately his perception of their position. There was firstly the Countess, or Titled Nobility. Here his manner was slightly deferential, and at the same time a little familiar — proof of his own good breeding.
Secondly, there was the Trojan, or the lady of Assured Position. Here he was quite familiar, and at the same time just a little patronising — proof of his sense of Trojan superiority.
Thirdly, there was the Governess, or Poor Gentility Position. To members of this class he was affably kind, conveying his sense of their merits and sympathy with their struggle against poverty, but nevertheless marking quite plainly the gulf fixed between him and them.
Fourthly, there were the Impossibles, or the Rest — ranging from the wives of successful Brewers to that class known as Unfortunate. Here there was no alteration in his manner; he was stern, and short, and stiff with all of them, and the reason of their existence was one of the unsolved problems that had always puzzled him. This woman would, of course, belong to this latter class — he drew himself up haughtily as he entered the drawing-room.
Dahlia Feverel was alone, seated working in the window. Life was beginning to offer attractions to her again. The thought of work was pleasing; she had decided to train as a nurse, and she began to see Robin in a clear, true light; she was even beginning to admit that he had been right, that their marriage would have been a great mistake. The announcement of Garrett Trojan took her by surprise — she gathered her work together and rose, her brain refusing to act consecutively. He wanted, of course, the letters — well, she had not got them.... It promised to be rather amusing.
And he on his side was surprised. He had expected a woman with frizzled hair and a dress of violent colours; he saw a slender, pale girl in black, and she looked rather more of a lady than he had supposed. He was, in spite of himself, confused. He began hurriedly —
“I am Mr. Garrett Trojan — I dare say you have heard of me from my nephew — Robin — Robert — with whom, I believe, you are acquainted, Miss — ah — Feverel. I have come on his behalf to request the return of some letters that he wrote to you during the summer.”
He drew a breath and paused. Well, that was all right anyhow, and quite sufficiently business-like.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Trojan?” she said, smiling at him. “It is good of you to have taken so much trouble simply about a few letters — and you really might have written, mightn’t you, and saved yourself a personal visit?”
He refused to sit down and drew himself up. “Now I warn you, Miss Feverel,” he said, “that this is no laughing matter. You are doing a very foolish thing in keeping the letters — very foolish — ah! um! You must, of course, see that — exceedingly foolish!”
He came to a pause. It was really rather difficult to know what to say next.
“Ah, Mr. Trojan,” she answered, “you must leave me to judge about the foolishness of it. After all, they are my letters.”
“Pure waste of time,” he answered, his voice getting a little shrill. “After all, there can be no question about it. We must have the letters — we are ready to go to some lengths to obtain them — even — ah, um — money — —”
“Now, Mr. Trojan,” she said quickly, “you are scarcely polite. But I am sure that you will see no reason for prolonging this interview when I say that, under no circumstances whatever, can I return the letters. That is my unchanging decision.”
He had no words; he stared at her, dumb with astonishment. This open defiance was the very last thing that he had expected. Then, at last —
“You refuse?” he said with a little gasp.
“Yes,” she answered lightly, “and I cannot see anything very astonishing in my refusal. They are my property, and it is nobody else’s business at all.”
“But it is,” he almost screamed. “Business! Why, I should think it was! Do you think we want to have a scandal throughout the kingdom? Do you imagine that it would be pleasant for us to have our name in all the papers — our name that has never known disgrace since the days of William the Conqueror? You can have,” he added solemnly, “very little idea of the value of a name if you imagine that we are going to tolerate its abuse in this fashion. Dear me, no!”
He was growing quite red at the thought of his possible failure. The things in the room annoyed him — the everlasting rustling on the mantelpiece — a staring photograph of Mr. Feverel, deceased, that seemed to follow him, protestingly, round and round the room — a corner of a dusty grey road seen dimly through dirty window-panes; why did people live in such a place — or, rather, why did such people live at all? — and to think that it was people like that who dared to threaten Trojan honour! How could Robin have been such a fool!
So, feeling that the situation was so absurd that argument was out of place, he began to bluster —
“Come now, Miss Feverel — this won’t do, you know! it won’t really. It’s too absurd — quite ridiculous. Why, you forget altogether who the Trojans are! Why, we’ve been years and years — hundreds of years! You can’t intend to oppose institutions of that kind! Why — it’s impossible — you don’t realise what you’re doing. Dear me, no! Why, the whole thing’s fantastic—” and then rather lamely, “You’ll be sorry, you know.”
She had been listening to him with amusement. It was pleasant to have the family on its knees like this after its treatment of her. He was saying, too, very many of the things that his brother had said, but how different it was!
“You know, Mr. Trojan,” she said, “that I can’t help feeling that you are making rather a lot of it. After all, I haven’t said that I’m going to do anything with the letters, have I? — simply keep them, and that, I think, I am quite entitled to do. And really my mind won’t change about that — I cannot give them to you.”
“Cannot!” he retorted eagerly. “Why, it’s easy enough. You know, Miss Feverel, it won’t do to play with me. I’m a man of the world and fencing won’t do, you know — not a bit of it. When I say I mean to have the letters, I mean to have them, and — ah, um — that’s all about it. It won’t do to fence, you know,” he said again.
“But I’m not fencing, Mr. Trojan, I’m saying quite plainly what is perfectly true, that I cannot let you have the letters — nothing that you can say will change my mind.”
And he really didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to have a scene — he shrunk timidly from violence of any kind; but he really must secure the letters. How they would laugh at the Club! Why, he could hear the guffaws of all Pendragon! London would be one enormous scream of laughter! — all Europe would be amused! and to his excited fancy Asia and Africa seemed to join the chorus! A Trojan and a common girl in a breach of promise case! A Trojan!
“I say,” he stammered, “you don’t know how serious it is. People will laugh, you know, if you bring the case on. Of course it was silly of him — Robin, I mean. I can’t conceive myself how he ever came to do such a thing. Boys will be boys, and you’re rather pretty, my dear. But, bless me, if we were to take all these little things seriously, why, where would some of us be?” He paused, and hinted impressively at a hideous past. “You are attractive, you know.” He looked at her in his most flattering manner— “Quite a nice girl, only you shouldn’t take it seriously — really you shouldn’t.”
This manner of speech was a great deal more offensive than the other, and Dahlia got up, her cheeks flushed —
“That is enough, Mr. Trojan. I think this had better come to an end. I can only repeat what I have said already, that I cannot give you the letters — and, indeed, if I had ever intended to do so, your last speech, at least, would have changed my mind — I am sorry that I cannot oblige you, but there is really nothing further to be said.”
He tried to stammer something; he faced her for a moment and endeavoured to be indignant, and then, to his own intense astonishment, found that he was walking down the stairs with the drawing-room door closed behind him. How amazing! — but he had done his best, and, if he had failed, why, after all, no other man could have succeeded any better. And she really was rather bewitching — he had not expected anything quite like that. What had he expected? He did not know, but he thought of his softly-carpeted, nicely-cushioned room with pleasurable anticipation. He would fling himself into his book when he got back ... he had several rather neat ideas.... He noticed, with pleasure, that the young man standing by the door of Mead’s Groceries touched his hat very respectfully, and Twitchett, his tailor, bowed. Come, come! There were a few people left who had some sense of Trojan supremacy. It wasn’t such a bad world! He would have tea in his room — not with Clare — and crumpets — yes, he liked crumpets.
Dahlia went back to her work with a sigh. What, she wondered, would be the next move? It had not been quite so amusing as she had expected, but it had been a little more exciting. For she had a curious feeling in it all, that she was fighting Harry Trojan’s battles. These were the people that had insulted him just as they had insulted her, and now they would have to pay for it, they would have to go to him as they had gone to her and crawl on their knees. But what a funny situation! That she should play the son for the father, and that she should be able to look at her own love affair so calmly! Poor Robin — he had taught her a great deal, and now it was time for him to learn his own lesson. For her the episode was closed and she was looking forward to the future. She would work and win her way and have done with sentiment. Friendship was the right thing — the thing that the world was meant for — but Love — Ah! that wounded so much more than it blessed!
But she was to have further experiences — the Trojan family had not done with her yet. Garrett had been absent barely more than half an hour when the servant again appeared at the door with, “Miss Trojan, Miss Dahlia, would like to see yer and is waiting in the ‘all.” Her hand twitching at her apron and mouth gaping with astonishment testified to her curiosity. For weeks the house had been unvisited and now, in a single day — !
“Show her up, Annie!”
She was a little agitated; Garrett had been simple enough and even rather amusing, but Clare Trojan was quite another thing. She was, Dahlia knew, the head of the family and a woman of the world. But Dahlia clenched her teeth; it was this person who was responsible for the whole affair — for the father’s unhappiness, for the son’s disloyalty. It was she who had been, as it were, behind Robin’s halting speeches concerning inequality and one’s duty to the family. Here was the head of the House, and Dahlia held the cards.
But Clare was very calm and collected as she entered the room. She had decided that a personal interview was necessary, but had rather regretted that it could not be conducted by letter. But still if you had to deal with that kind of person you must put up with their methods, and having once made up her mind about a thing she never turned back.
She hated the young person more bitterly than she had ever hated any one, and she would have heard of her death with no shadow of pity but rather a great rejoicing. In the first place, the woman had come between Clare and Robin; secondly, she threatened the good name of the family; thirdly, she was forcing Clare to do several things that she very much disliked doing. For all these reasons the young person was too bad to live — but she had no intention of being uncivil. Although this was her first experience of diplomacy, she had very definite ideas as to how such things ought to be conducted, and civility would hide a multitude of subtleties. Clare meant to be very subtle, very kind, and, once the letters were in her hand, very unrelenting.
She was wearing a very handsome dress of grey silk with a large picture hat with grey feathers: she entered the room with a rustle, and the sweep of the skirts spoke of infinite condescension.
“Miss Feverel, I believe—” she held out her hand— “I am afraid this is a most unceremonious hour for a call, and if I have interrupted you in your work, pray go on. I wouldn’t for the world. What a day, hasn’t it been? I always think that these sort of grey depressing days are so much worse than the downright pouring ones, don’t you? You are always expecting, you know, and then nothing ever comes.”
Dahlia looked rather nervous in the window, and on her face there fluttered a rather uncertain smile.
“Yes,” she said, a little timidly; “but I think that most of the days here are grey.”
“Ah, you find that, do you? Well, now, that’s strange, because I must say that I haven’t found that my own experience — and Cornwall, you know, is said to be the land of colour — the English Riviera some, rather prettily, call it — and St. Ives, you know, along the coast is quite a place for painters because of the colour that they get there.”
Dahlia said “Yes,” and there was a pause. Then Clare made her plunge.
“You must wonder a little, Miss Feverel, what I have come about. I really must apologise again about the hour. But I won’t keep you more than a moment; and it is all quite a trivial matter — so trivial that I am ashamed to disturb you about it. I would have written, but I happened to be passing and — so — I came in.”
“Yes?” said Dahlia.
“Well, it’s about some letters. Perhaps you have forgotten that my nephew, Robert Trojan, wrote to you last summer. He tells me that you met last summer at Cambridge and became rather well acquainted, and that after that he wrote to you for several months. He tells me that he wrote to you asking you to return his letters, and that you, doubtless through forgetfulness, failed to reply. He is naturally a little nervous about writing to you again, and so I thought that — as I was passing — I would just come and see you about the matter. But I am really ashamed to bother you about anything so trivial.”
“No,” answered Dahlia, “I didn’t forget — I wrote — answered Robin’s letter.”
“Ah! you did? Then he must have misunderstood you. He certainly gave me to understand — —”
“Yes, I wrote to Robin saying that I was sorry — but I intended to keep the letters.”
Clare paused and looked at her sharply. This was the kind of thing that she had expected; of course the young person would bluff and stand out for a tall price, which must, if necessary, be paid to her.
“But, Miss Feverel, surely” — she smiled deprecatingly— “that can’t be your definite answer to him. Poor Robin! — surely he is entitled to letters that he himself has written.”
“Might I ask, Miss Trojan, why you are anxious that they should be returned?”
“Oh, merely a whim — nothing of any importance. But Robin feels, as I am sure you must, that the whole episode — pleasant enough at the time, no doubt — is over, and he feels that it would be more completely closed if the letters were destroyed.”
“Ah! but there we differ!” said Dahlia sharply. “That’s just what I don’t feel about it. I value those letters, Miss Trojan, highly.”
Now what, thought Clare, exactly was she? Number One, the intriguing adventuress? Number Two, the outraged woman? Number Three, the helpless girl clinging to her one support? Now, of Numbers One and Two Clare had had no experience. Such persons had never come her way, and indeed of Number Three she could know very little; so she escaped from generalities and fixed her mind on the actual girl in front of her. This was most certainly no intriguing adventuress. Clare had quite definite ideas about that class of person; but she very possibly was the outraged female. At any rate, she would act on that conclusion.
“My dear young lady,” she said softly, “you must not think that I do not sympathise. I do indeed, from the bottom of my heart. Robin has behaved abominably, and any possible reparation we, as a family, will gladly pay. I think, however, that you are a little hard on him. He was young, so were you; and it is very easy for us — we women especially — to mistake the reality of our affection. Robin at any rate made a mistake and saw it — and frankly told you so. It was wrong — very; but I cannot help feeling — forgive me if I speak rather plainly — that it would be equally wrong on your part if you were to indulge any feeling of revenge.”
“There is not,” said Dahlia, “any question of revenge.”
“Ah,” said Clare brightly, “you will let me have the letters, then?”
“I cannot,” Dahlia answered gravely. “Really, Miss Trojan, I’m afraid that we can gain nothing by further discussion. I have looked at the matter from every point of view, and I’m afraid that I can come to no other decision.”
Clare stared in front of her. What was to be her next move? Like Garrett, she had been brought to a standstill by Dahlia’s direct refusal. Viewing the matter indefinitely, from the security of her own room, it had seemed to her that the girl would be certain to give way at the very mention of the Trojan name. She would face Robin — yes, that was natural enough, because, after all, he was only a boy and had no knowledge of the world and the proper treatment of such a case — but when it came to the head of the family with all the influence of the family behind her, then instant submission seemed inevitable.
Clare was forced to realise that instant submission was very far away indeed, and that the girl sitting quietly in the window showed little sign of yielding. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and her voice was a little sharper.
“It seems then, Miss Feverel, that it is a question of terms. But why did you not say so before? I would have told you at once that we are willing to pay a very considerable sum for the return of the letters.”
Dahlia’s face flushed, and after a moment’s pause she rose from her chair and walked towards Clare.
“Miss Trojan,” she said quietly, “I have no intention of taking money for them — or, indeed, of taking anything.”
“I’m sure,” broke in Clare, flushing slightly, “I had no intention of — —”
“Ah — no, I know,” went on Dahlia. “But it is not, I assure you, a case for melodrama — but a very plain, simple little affair that is happening everywhere all the time. You say that you cannot understand why I should wish to keep the letters. Let me try and explain, and also let me try and urge on you that it is really no good at all trying to change my mind. It is now several days since I had my last talk with Robin, and I have, of course, thought a good deal about it — it is scarcely likely that half-an-hour’s conversation with you will change a determination that I have arrived at after ten days’ hard thinking. And surely it is not hard to understand. Six months ago I was happy and inexperienced. I had never been in love, and, indeed, I had no idea of its meaning. Then your nephew came: he made love to me, and I loved him in return.”
She paused for a moment. Clare looked sympathetic. Then Dahlia continued: “He meant no harm, no doubt, and perhaps for the time he was quite serious in what he said. He was, as you say, very young. But it was a game to him — it was everything to me. I treasured his letters, I thought of them day and night. I — but, of course, you know the kind of thing that a girl goes through when she is in love for the first time. Then I came here and went through some bad weeks whilst he was making up his mind to tell me that he loved me no longer. Of course, I saw well enough what was happening — and I knew why it was — it was the family at his back.”
A murmur from Clare. “I assure you, Miss Feverel.”
“Oh yes, Miss Trojan, you don’t suppose that I cared for you very much during those weeks. I suffered a little, too, and it changed me from a girl into a woman — rather too quickly to be altogether healthy, perhaps. And then he came and told me in so many words. I thought at first that it had broken my heart; a girl does, you know, when it happens the first time, but you needn’t be afraid — my heart’s all right — and I wouldn’t marry Robin now if he begged me to. But it had hurt, all of it, and perhaps one’s pride had suffered most of all — and so, of course, I kept the letters. It was the one way that I could hurt you. I’m frank, am I not? — but every woman would do the same. You see you are so very proud, you Trojans!
“It is not only that you thank God that you are not as other men, but you are so bent on making the rest of us call out ‘Miserable sinner!’ very loudly and humbly. And we don’t believe it. Why should we? Everybody has their own little bits o’ things that they treasure, and they don’t like being told that they’re of no value at all. Why, Miss Trojan, I’m quite a proud person really — you’d be surprised if you knew.”
She laughed, and then sat down on the sofa opposite Clare, with her chin resting on her hand.
“So you see, Miss Trojan, it’s natural, after all, that I kept the letters.”
Clare had listened to the last part of her speech in silence, her lips firmly closed, her hands folded on her lap. As she listened to her she knew that it was quite hopeless, that nothing that she could ever say would change the young person’s mind. She was horribly disappointed, of course, and it would be terrible to be forced to return to Robin, and tell him that she had failed: for the first time she would have to confess failure — but really she could not humble herself any longer: she was not sure that, even now, she had not unbent a little more than was necessary. If the young person refused to consider the question of terms there was no more to be said — and how dare she talk about the Trojans in that way?
“Really, Miss Feverel, I scarcely think that it is necessary for us to enter into a discussion of that kind, is it? I daresay you have every reason for personal pride — but really that is scarcely my affair, is it? If no offer of money can tempt you — well, really, there the matter must rest, mustn’t it? Of course I am sorry, but you know your own mind. But that you should think yourself insulted by such an offer is, it seems to me, a little absurd. It is quite obvious what you mean to do with them.”
Dahlia smiled.
“Is it?” she said. “That is very clever of you, Miss Trojan. I am sorry that you should have so much trouble for such a little result.”
“There is no more to be said,” answered Clare, moving to the door. “Good morning,” and she was gone.
“Oh dear,” said Dahlia, as she went back to the window, “how unpleasant she is. Poor Robin! What a time he will have!”
For her the pathos was over, but for them — well — it had not begun.