“Why, Adela,” said Josephine, shaking her latchkey at a maid who was waiting in her hall, “what is the good of my burdening myself with the insignia of a householder, if you are to stay up and make it useless? I undertake to be equal to the work of the morrow, late hours or not, but I have not the handicap of youth. A lady to see me, who insisted on waiting? Well, I have known people come at stranger times. Parent, pupil, former pupil, future parent? Which of them needs my help to the point of snatching my sleep?”
She entered the house, to be met by a clear, carrying voice, as a tall, dark woman broke out of a room to meet her, pushing back her veil to reveal the full, black eyes, the crinkling black hair, and the keenly cut nose and chin of a friend of her youth.
“Home, sweet home at last! Yes, it shall be sweet, though I have lost so much since I left it, and come back to it so old and poor and sad. I will have the spirit to make it so. You, who remember me of old, will not doubt the spirit. Both of you have had the early hopes fulfilled? I am too glad, for my heart to grow sick with my own still deferred. You will tell of the happiness to an ear so ready to listen.”
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth Giffard!” said Josephine. “After all these years of silence! The voice struck my ears like an echo from the past.”51
“This meeting has been in my mind many times,” said Simon, advancing with gentle eagerness. “The many imaginings have made it true.”
“I had almost given up hope of it,” said his wife. “And now it has come to pass, I think the heroine of the occasion should be sitting in this easy chair, and having a glass of this wine, and some of these sandwiches, that are not put here to be looked at. Now I think that is a great deal better.”
“Such a lot of thought and kindness, that I am sure the old affection is underneath! It lies too deep in my own heart not to have its place in yours. So many storms have passed over it, and left it unscathed! Now, tell me of your life together, and the adopted son, and the success. Yes, I heard of the so brave ventures. I had no fear when I heard of them, when the little bird with the tidings flitted between you and me. Yes, little birds have known where they would find a welcome. I have not sent them back with only sad words to say. But now I will feel the happiness, though it is not mine. It shall be mine indeed.”
“This is Gabriel Swift, our adopted son, my brother’s boy,” said Josephine. “I took him off Jonathan’s hands, when he was a few months old, soon after I set up the school, and a short time before I married.”
“Yes, yes, I know it all: I have not a short memory where my friends are concerned. And I heard you were to have a husband to help in the brave undertakings. My daughter was born at the time of your marriage, a few months after her father died, the father she never saw. So my child lost a father, and yours gained one. Well, that was how it was to be.”
“It sounds a reproach to me,” said Gabriel. “Is there anything I can do to atone?”
“Ah, I daresay there will be something. My girl will be glad to 52have a comrade. But at the moment my mind must be given to these old comrades of my own. I heard of the wedding when I could not write, when my baby was a few days old. I could only think of both of you. My heart was too full for anything else, too full of joy and sorrow. Both were there; yes, I will be just. And my heart found room for friends again; it was closed for such a little while. It was on your honeymoon that you heard that I had a daughter?”
“It was then that we heard of your husband’s death,” said Simon. “We heard the good and the sad tidings at the same time.”
“I sent the other word to Josephine, when I was first alone; when I felt so weak, and remembered her as so strong. But it was not the moment for it; poor Josephine, it was not! I was so sorry afterwards to have sent such a sad, sad word. Yes, when I knew, I understood; I am not a person who misunderstands; I only feared I had done harm. But Josephine was herself, and went on her own brave way. And now I see her in the midst of all that came of it.”
“We neither of us heard before our marriage,” said Simon. “We had the letter that came on our honeymoon. I remember we sent the answer at once.”
“Such a sweet answer! It gave me courage to go forward. I did not know how hard the world was to the widow and the fatherless. Well, I did not keep silence, to bring the sadness after all. So let me hear some of the dear, good news.”
“I am sure we heard of your husband’s death on our honeymoon,” said Simon.
“I remember making it clear to you then, anyhow,” said Josephine. “It would have been too much to be sure of accomplishing before. If Elizabeth meant to write a letter, or we meant to read one, when we were all immersed in the deeps of our experience, we shall none of us misunderstand.” 53
“Well, a letter in the past is not to be compared with friendship in the present. I will take the one in exchange for the other with all my heart.”
“Now, do you want this callow youth as witness of your reunion?” said Josephine. “I will spare you the constraint of his presence, and myself the discredit of missing our evening hour together, or any other lapse along that line. It is for my peace to keep in his good graces, but it makes less difference to yours. Don’t think that I don’t remember the old bond between you two. It is a pity for a tie of that kind to be broken. It seems to me such a sad thing, when the deep relations of life blot out the lighter memories that are the heritage from youth. So I will leave you to clasp your hands over the gulf of your experience. Don’t think we want to be witnesses of that dramatic scene.”
Elizabeth turned her smiling face from the closing door.
“So you heard that I was a widow, after you were married yourself, Simon?” she said, her voice making the sound of the name sweet.
“Yes, that is how I remember it,” said Simon, his lips just framing the words.
“Well, and how did that come about? Well, it came about in one way or another. It was best for you to go to the chosen life, chosen, I am sure, so wisely for you, undistraught by anything that might lead you aside; or it was thought best. We are in the hands of—what shall we call it? Fate? Let us call it Fate. That is the best word, or shall we say the wisest?”
Simon did not speak.
“We must be good and wise. And it is never good and wise to think of what might have been, never good and wise to judge. I think that Josephine seems greater and wiser than ever now, Simon. Her face has gained with the years, if I may say a pretty thing to 54you about your wife. There is something there, that sits better on it than youth. But I did not realise that youth was so far behind: perhaps life is not always in such a hurry with its later gifts?”
“You have not let me hear from you for over twenty years,” said Simon.
“Ah, you did not let me hear from you, when the months were as long as all the years afterwards.”
“What are your plans for the future? I may ask that, even if I have no claim on the past.”
“Ah, plans are for the more fortunate. They are not for lonely widows, lacking in the world’s goods, not for the people who need them. I am lodging here, to live for a while in my memories, and give my girl a glimpse of the scene of my youth. Through her childhood I have done whatever would keep her with me, always trying, trying to keep above it all. Trying with who knows how much success? I don’t know what the verdict will be.”
“Well, I do,” said Josephine, returning to the room; “and one flattering enough even for you; and I remember how exacting you were in the matter of a compliment. Not that I think that any kind of work needs so much keeping above, you know. That is my own prosaic opinion. But what are you running away for? Can’t you be comfortable here a little longer? I don’t see anything in this room to frighten you.”
“There is so much for me to see and appreciate and—no, I won’t say envy—put from me as above my own claims, that I think I will run away, as you use that word. But I will run back again; a glimpse won’t hurt me; it will only confirm that my friends still have the best. I have so prized our dear meeting after all these years. So now fare you well. Not that I need to say that to you. Does Simon have to leave the fire to speed poor me on my path?”55
“Now, you stay where you are,” said Josephine to her husband. “You and your chill have not yet parted company. Do you think I didn’t notice your appetite at dinner, or your lack of it? I am used to doing the honours in this house. Such a great barrack of a place it seemed at first, for me to do the honours in!” She followed her guest to the door, continuing her speech. “Well, it is my lot, what I have undertaken. I meet it day by day, as it comes.”
“Well, you have your husband to help you,” said Elizabeth, walking in front. “He and I were great friends once, you know. You do know; you left us for a minute to remember it. We found the minute enough; we remembered many things; our old times together, his feelings when I was engaged, dear Simon, his surprise when he heard too late of my husband’s death. You thought it best he should have the surprise. Ah, poor, foolish girl that I was!”
“You were a woman when your husband died.”
“Yes, poor, foolish woman that I was! It was more foolish in a woman. I should have known the risk; I had known you.” Elizabeth quickened her pace, almost as if she were fleeing from Josephine. “But yet I had not known you; perhaps I could not; perhaps the difference between us was too great. I have to blame my own innocence. Yes, it was strange in a woman of my age. You must find it strange. At the same age you had not that innocence.”
“You know that Simon is always your friend,” said Josephine, as the door of the hall brought them to a pause. “We did not suspect that you had this other feeling. Believe me, we did not; perhaps we had our own innocence. Your secret will be safe, even safe from Simon, and it is from him that you will want it to be safe.”
“Yes, I think the secret is safe from Simon; that many things are safe from him.”
“My dear, it was when you were the widow of another man, that you wrote to me, or thought you wrote. If Simon and I were 56blind to anything outside each other—perhaps we should admit we were for a time; well, we will both admit it—and a letter got passed over or put aside, it could have meant very little. It was when your future was dawning, that you wrote the letter to be answered, that could be answered by people in our state of mind. And we answered it at once; I remember reminding Simon, that it was his words rather than mine, that would bring you comfort. I was glad to hear you say that they brought it to you. He has to be kept to those little duties, as you who know him so well, must know; though that was a deep and pressing duty to both of us; you know that too. But the things you have said, would give even me a wrong impression, if I let them. But I will not let them; do not fear; do not let your hard experience warp your judgement. Tell me your troubles, and lean on me. I am so used to being leant on.”
“My troubles,” said Elizabeth, weeping into her hands, “are poverty and loneliness and anxiety for my child. I must earn my bread and hers, and I have nothing that people need. I have suffered to the last in eating bread they thought I did not earn, those people who seemed so much below me. It has been bitter bread; and no one in my life has helped me.”
“Now can I help you?” said Josephine, in an open considering tone, as if the foregoing talk had left little impression on her mind. “You would at least be with friends, if you took a place in my house. I have to replace my housekeeper, who is leaving me to be married. If her work would be easy for you, it is time you found things easy. And nobody would taunt you with eating bread you did not earn, even though it were a little more than bread. And in a school your daughter would find a place. I don’t know how that sounds to you?”
“Such a blessing, such a breaking of light. I would accept it so gratefully, if I felt I was deserving. But I have said things 57out of the bitterness of my heart, when in yours there was kindness.”
“Well, be thankful you said them to someone who knew you could not mean them. And tell me when you will come and bring your daughter, for both of us to care for together. I shall be grateful for your help as soon as you will give it, as I have put your predecessor’s convenience before my own.”
“Then I will come at once, to get used to my duties. Such sacred duties they will be to me, so faithfully discharged! So much I shall have to learn from you, and will learn so readily, or I should not be the woman I am. I think you remember my old self, though I have shown it through such a darkness. I am that old self still at bottom: I don’t know if I look at all the same at the top?”
“You have altered much less than I have. People would hardly guess we were the same age. It is strange how differently the years deal with us, what divers things they give and take.”
“So you have forgiven my yielding to bitterness at the contrast of our lots? It is seldom that I sink so low. But enough pressure forces us to anything, and I had had enough. My measure was full to overflowing, and it overflowed. I had drunk too deeply of the bitter cup; but it will be mingled with sweetness now.” Elizabeth went with her light, quick steps towards the door. “Our old friendship is the basis of a new life together, with you at the top and me at the bottom, and such a lot of love in all the space between. The spirit that broke its bonds just now, has escaped. Your success shall be sweet to me. And so for such a short time, good-bye.” She held out her hand, but Josephine drew her forward and kissed her on the cheek, and then, as if asking nothing in return, released her at once from her house and her embrace.
Simon hardly looked up when his wife returned.
“Well, still out of bed?” she said in a rather excited voice.58
“You did not tell me, Josephine, when Elizabeth’s husband died.”
“Yes, I told you, and urged you to write her a letter, and had almost to sit over you while you did it, if my memory serves.”
“That was on our honeymoon, when he had been dead for some months, if your memory serves there too. She said she wrote to you when he died.”
“Well, now she says she did not write. And what an ugly, bitter, little voice! Poor Elizabeth! We need not load up on her every word she said, in a moment of emotion and what not. It is a good thing she chose to utter her retracting words to me. I could see her making her choice, and had mercy on her. You see, I knew her so well.”
“Her voice did not sound as if she were uttering such words.”
“Oh, we had the bout of emotion we were bound to have, as two weak women alone. You would not have expected her to have it with you. I had seen it gathering. Poor Elizabeth is often not mistress of herself.”
“Did she retract her statement that she wrote to you at the time of her husband’s death?”
“No,” said Josephine, slightly drawing herself up. “I knew she was prepared to retract it, and so I did not require her to. I did not wish her to take more on herself than had to be: I saw that she was not in a fit state. I don’t want to push my advantage to the uttermost. I never have any use for that line.”
“Are we to see her again soon? I hope we shall often meet.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that,” said his wife, with a faint note of triumph, “as she is settling here at once as housekeeper. We shall meet her every day, whether we want to or not. And we ought to want to; she is an old friend of us both.” She ended with 59her voice dying away, and her eyes on the bookcase, and walking forward, took a book.
“Did you arrange that just now?”
“Well, it was obvious that we did not arrange it when she was in here,” said Josephine, turning a page.
“Was it her wish?”
“My dear Simon, it was she who was worked up, because we did not see the desire in her mind, not I. Because I did not see it. She acquits you, I am sure; Elizabeth would always acquit a man. It is a woman whose instinct is supposed not to fail, as mine failed, I admit.”
“She is coming here as housekeeper?”
“That is what she wanted. That is what I perceived her to want. That is what I ought to have perceived before. That is what I offered her, when I perceived she wanted it. That is what she forgave me for not offering, when she accepted it. Well, is that all you want to know?”
“I am very glad,” said Simon.
“So am I,” said Josephine, in an open manner. “I am fond of Elizabeth, and shall enjoy having her working under me; working with me, for there is no question of top and bottom in my conception of work. She went about the business in a baffling spirit, but characteristic, poor, strung-up creature that she is!”
“I hope it will be a suitable post for her.”
“Well, you are a nice kind of customer! Of course it is suitable, when she needs it, and has no other, and can have her daughter with her, when another might involve a parting.”
“Her daughter will live here, will she?”
“My good Simon, how can we separate a mother and her child, when the mother is a widow, and the child of the dependent sex? You are not a fiend, and neither am I; so it is no good our 60pretending, convenient though it might be. And don’t keep looking at me as if I were one. You have been adopting that expression for some time, and it is the reverse of becoming. You must see that what either of us wants, has no bearing on the matter.”
“I do, indeed, see it, Josephine. I have been let into a sorry muddle.”
“Well, don’t keep harping on it. A muddle is not any better because it is sorry. The sorrier, the worse, in my humble imagination. I don’t wonder that you became muddle-headed in meeting the romance of your youth. Don’t think that I don’t know about that. I heard enough of it at the time when her affections were in process of being transferred, and she was keeping you as a sort of second string to her bow, as far as I could gather. I even had a word of that time to-day, when she was referring, and frankly, too, to the changes that time had wrought in you and me. Ah, Elizabeth had her ways. A leopard does not change its spots, or change his feeling that spots are rather a credit. Well, women of her kind have a right to put their gifts to their natural use. We must not find fault with what is natural. And in spite of your concern for her, it did not occur to you to escort her home. It is a good thing that you were out of her mind.”
Elizabeth went from Josephine’s door with rapid feet and upright head, her face betraying her inward rehearsal of a humorous scene. When she reached her lodging, she leaned over the steps and tapped with a sprightly hand on the window.
“Such nice, prompt attendance! Thank you, pretty parlourmaid,” she said, as her daughter came to the door. “It is late at night to bring the wretch from below. Such funny things I have witnessed, late though it is! A little refreshment will help me to evoke them. So surprised would Josephine be by my needing it, when so much has been offered me. I could not feel tempted, 61when it all seemed so valuable and so valued. Now I can’t waste my gifts on a lackadaisical audience: let your mother keep what is her heritage, what has stood between us and so many things. The truth defies even my talent for pictures in words. Josephine, looking like a statesman in a woman’s dress! Such a sinking of the heart I had, when I remembered we were young together! The funny sight, but sad too, poor Simon! And the end the funniest part of all, that I am to be housekeeper in the school where she is head mistress! Such a contradiction of all memories!” Elizabeth wiped her eyes, as if her tears of mirth had changed their kind. “I wonder if Josephine will think of it. Well, what do you say to your news?”
“I have hardly had my own news yet,” said her daughter, in her husky, languid tones, turning to her mother her dark, unusual face, with its absent, indifferent eyes and curved and protruding lips. “What part am I to play in this comedy, tragedy, tragi-comedy? It is the first of the three, I gather, with the hearts of clowns as sad as they are said to be.”
“As if that were not the point, that I am to keep you with me! As if I should have yielded to pressure, if they had not pressed that! Ah, they saw your mother and remembered her. And it need not be such a place as some of them have been. I know you have been brought to a dark outlook. Yes, a sad burden to bear, and shoulders tried by bearing it! But young shoulders are supple, and the least harm comes to the bravest. We have spirit to recover, and I think that the time has come for recovery. Keep up your heart, or your mother’s heart will fail. There will be enough to make it in this new life based upon the old. But poor Josephine and Simon! I feel so much sorrier for them, than they for me, if only they knew.”
“We can hardly expect them to guess it. Is the problem of my clothes to be left to solve itself? I suppose I shall need the outfit 62of everyone, with everything made a little stronger, to stand an extra strain. The bright side of not being trained to any one thing is that you are qualified for all things.”
“No, it is not to be left to solve itself; it is to be left to your mother to solve. I have brains and hands, and the skill and will to use them, and an extra spur this time to urge my gifts to their best. There will be other eyes than mine to be rejoiced by the sight of my daughter. I am not making a mistake in taking you to Josephine’s house. It is not for nothing that I have an eye to character. I am not of the meek who inherit the earth. Enough of the earth will do, to make a share for you. Ah, Cinderella in her ashes was a princess. And it is not meet that some should be so light, and others so heavy laden.”