The Sleeping Fury (8 page)

Beatrix was sitting on the sofa, her hands in her lap, doing nothing. Charlotte, as she approached her, felt that she herself was as pale as Beatrix. “Bee,” she stammered, “Bee darling!” She dropped on to the sofa beside her and seized both her poor idle hands. “I can't bear it any longer, Bee,” she sobbed. “What is it? Won't you tell me what's the matter?”

Beatrix laid her arm round Charlotte's shoulders; her hand patted her gently on the arm.

“My poor little Charlotte,” she said. “I couldn't help it. Somehow, I couldn't talk about it. But now you shall know, dear, because I've made up my mind.”

She paused, and Charlotte leaned, almost happy, with her cheek against Beatrix's shoulder and Beatrix's arm round her.

“I'm going to tell you a secret, dear,” Beatrix went on. “I was going to tell you, anyhow, because I couldn't have borne to leave you in the dark. But you mustn't breathe a word, Charlotte. Remember, I trust you absolutely.”

Charlotte raised her tear-stained face and nodded.

“I'm going away, Charlotte.”

Charlotte started. “
Going,
Bee?” There was fear in her voice.

“Yes, I'm going to
him,
Charlotte. I can't … I can't bear to be separated from him any longer. Mamma wouldn't let us be engaged. She forbade me ever to see him or write to him.”

“But why, Bee?”

“Oh, you know what Mamma is. She said it was quite out of the question. I spoke to her again a few days ago—when you came in and found us here, you know. I begged and implored her. But she's unshakable. Nothing will move her. She's a hard woman, Charlotte,” said Beatrix bitterly, “as hard as a stone, and proud. She'd rather see us die than sacrifice one inch of her pride.”

“Let me speak to her, Bee,” Charlotte broke out volubly. “Let me—”

Beatrix cut her short with a weary gesture and a shake of the head. “It's no good, Charlotte,” she said. “If anything could move her, she would have relented months ago. No, my mind is made up, and you mustn't make me more wretched than I am already by trying to make me change it. I'm going to him, Charlotte.”

“Without … without Mamma knowing?”

“But certainly without Mamma knowing. What do you suppose?” She spoke irritably, but, meeting Charlotte's agonised gaze, she melted. “I'm sorry, Charlotte darling,” she said, “but I'm tired and cross. You mustn't try to influence me. What I am doing, I am doing quite deliberately, after long and very, very serious thought.”

“Bee”—Charlotte's eyes were streaming; she seized one of Beatrix's hands in both her own—“oh, Bee, will nothing I can say …?”

“Nothing, dear!” she smiled bitterly. “You see, I am as hard as Mamma. Now listen! I shall not tell you when I am going, because it will make it easier for you not to have known, won't it, when
Mamma discovers? And if she finds out that you knew what you do know, and is angry with you, you can tell her that I forced you to promise me solemnly not to tell. Darling, you mustn't worry too much. It will all come right in the end.”

“But, Bee, it will break her heart.”

Beatrix laughed outright—a sharp, scoffing laugh. “Mamma! You don't know your mother, Charlotte, if you really believe that. Mamma's heart, my dear, is warranted unbreakable.”

In that last speech Charlotte heard once again the voice of the old Beatrix, and the sound of it brought her a sudden comfort.

“Dry your eyes, dear,” said Beatrix; “here's Elson coming with the tea.”

The next two days were terrible for Charlotte. The anxiety and suspense were almost unbearable, and she looked so ill that Lady Hadlow dosed her with Gregory's Mixture. She scarcely dared to meet Beatrix's eyes, for whenever she did so her own filled with tears. Sometimes, when her mind had succeeded in forgetting the impending tragedy and had grown calm again, she would suddenly become aware of an urgency deep in some cavern of her being, a physical pressure of which for a moment she could not remember the significance. Was it the urge of coming happiness or threatened disaster? Then she would remember, and the nightmare would return, bringing with it the aching apprehension. If only she could escape from it, awake and find it a dream! But she knew too well that it was not a dream, that it was real, bitterly and exhaustingly real, and there was nothing for her to do but wait and suffer.

On the morning of the third day Beatrix was late for breakfast, and Charlotte and Lady Hadlow began without her. Charlotte sat there sick at heart; the food was so dry in her mouth that she could hardly swallow it. She forced herself to eat, so that her mother should not notice her trouble. At last Lady Hadlow lost patience.

“Whatever has become of that child?” she said.

“Charlotte dear, just run up and see what she is doing.”

Charlotte rose and went out of the room. She knew well enough what she would find. As she went upstairs she told herself, in a desperate attempt to escape from the appalling actuality, that in a minute Mamma would know. What would happen then? Impossible to guess; but at least the waiting was ended, the crisis was at hand, and sooner or later it would be over. In a few hours the tension would have slackened; in a few weeks, perhaps, all would be well again, and Beatrix forgiven. She opened the door of Beatrix's bedroom. As she had expected, it was empty. She glanced round the room. The bed had been slept in, but brushes and comb, sponge and toothbrush, nightdress and dressing-gown, were gone. Those small details brought home to her the dreaded fact that Beatrix was really gone, gone for ever; that nothing would ever be the same again. She must have caught the early train; she would already be well on her way to London. Charlotte stood, her hands hanging forlornly at her sides. A sense of utter loneliness came over her, loneliness and extreme weariness. She felt that she had not the energy to go down and face her mother.

After a moment she pulled herself together. To dawdle there in the deserted room was merely to postpone the inevitable. She turned and began reluctantly to go towards the door, and then, more firmly, downstairs to the dining-room.

“Well?” said Lady Hadlow, looking up from a letter she was reading. Then, catching sight of Charlotte's face, she exclaimed with a note of
alarm in her voice: “Charlotte, what's the matter?”

“She's not there, Mamma. She's … gone.”

“Gone?” Lady Hadlow rose abruptly from her chair. “What do you mean, child?”

“She's gone away, Mamma. Her brushes and comb and other things have gone.”

Without another word Lady Hadlow hurried out of the room, brushing past Charlotte, who still stood near the door. Charlotte, left alone, moved forward and dropped into a chair near the fire. Her mind was empty; she knew only that she was very tired. After a short or a long time she heard a step on the stairs. Her mother was returning.

“Charlotte,” she said, as she entered the room, “get me the railway guide.”

When Charlotte had brought it, Lady Hadlow remained for some time immersed in it. Then, closing the book, with one finger marking a page, she remained for a while deep in thought. Charlotte knew that she was considering plans of action. At last, with an abrupt gesture of dismissal, as if deciding that any action would be useless, she rose from her chair and went and shut the door, which she had left ajar. Then, with an expression of grim determination, she walked over to the fireplace where Charlotte was sitting. The railway guide was still in her hand.

“Charlotte, what do you know of this?”

Charlotte raised her eyes slowly. “I know that she's gone away.”

“That is obvious. Now tell me where she has gone.”

“To … to him, Mamma.”

“She told you, then?”

“She told me she had decided to go, but she did not say when.”

“And you didn't tell me!” Lady Hadlow's voice was still stern and cold. “So both my daughters have deceived me!”

“But I promised, Mamma,” Charlotte broke out. “She made me promise faithfully before she told me anything.”

“I see, Charlotte. And
you
promised faithfully to deceive your mother. I don't seem to be very fortunate in my daughters.”

Charlotte's cheeks flamed at the injustice; the sting of it made her suddenly bold. “That's not true, Mamma. If I had not promised, she would have told me nothing. I wanted to know. All this time I've been treated like a child, knowing that something was the matter, but … but shut out, kept in the dark, by both of you. I couldn't bear it any longer.”

“I see. So Beatrix confided in you. She enlisted you against me.”

“She told me she was going.” Charlotte began to sob. “Oh Mamma, why did you separate them?”

Lady Hadlow's face was implacable. “Because, child—if you must know—he was not a suitable person for my daughter to marry.”

“But poor Beatrix was in love with him, Mamma.”

“I had hoped,” said Lady Hadlow, “that my girls were capable of controlling their feelings to some extent. Why,” she broke out indignantly, “the man isn't even a gentleman.”

“Then you have seen him, Mamma?” Charlotte felt suddenly immensely interested. The fact that her mother had seen him made poor Beatrix's beau so much more real to her.

“Of course I've seen him. It was after seeing him that I refused to allow them to be engaged. Beatrix will not have told you, of course, what his father is?”

Charlotte shook her head.

“He's a dentist, Charlotte. My daughter's father-in-law a dentist! I shall have you, next, wanting to marry a plumber.”

There was no intention of humour in Lady Hadlow's words; there was not even an intention of sarcasm. She spoke on a note of pure tragedy. “What the Mardales will think,” she added, “I dare not so much as try to imagine.”

• • • • • • • •

Charlotte, thinking it over in bed that night, recalled Beatrix's words: “She's a hard woman, Charlotte; and proud!” and then the later remark, the sharp-tongued remark of the old, humorous Bee: “Mamma's heart is warranted unbreakable.”

Yes, she thought to herself, she is hard and very proud. But next morning, when her mother came down to breakfast, Charlotte saw that her face was the face of an old woman, a face drawn and colourless. The sight wrung Charlotte's heart, and, when kissing her good morning, she flung her arms round her.

“Mamma, darling!” she murmured.

Lady Hadlow understood. “My good little girl!” she said. “You mustn't take any notice of what I
said to you yesterday. You see, I was terribly upset.”

That afternoon Lady Hadlow appeared at the tea-table with a letter in her hand. “I've just received a letter from Beatrix,” she said.

Charlotte's heart leapt. “Oh, Mamma,
have
you? Do let me see it.”

Lady Hadlow frowned. “I don't know, child, that there's any reason for you to see it.” But, when tea was over, she suddenly handed it to Charlotte. “After all, my dear,” she said, “I suppose you may read it”; and she abruptly left the room.

Charlotte's eyes filled with tears at the sight of the familiar writing.

“DEAREST MAMMA,” wrote Beatrix,—“Having deliberately done what I have done, I think it would be impertinent, and I know it would be vain, to ask for your forgiveness, though nothing would make me happier than to receive it. I have suffered, and still suffer, believe me, as much as you can, nor should I have brought myself to act as I did if your refusal even to let me see and write to Arthur had not caused him and me a still greater suffering. I write merely to tell you, as I feel I ought, that we were married by special licence this morning.

“With much love to my dear Charlotte and yourself,

“I remain,
                                 “Your loving daughter,
                                                                          “BEATRIX.”

During the months that followed Beatrix's disappearance, she and Charlotte corresponded frequently. Charlotte did not attempt to hide the fact from her mother, and her mother, she knew, had often seen the envelopes addressed in Beatrix's large, vigorous hand. But she raised no objections, nor did she ever ask for news of Beatrix. In the summer came the usual invitation to Haughton, and during the visit Charlotte never once heard her mother mention Beatrix's name. Lord Mardale never spoke of her, but when he came in from his early rides Charlotte could see that he was saddened by the loss of his former companion.

Everything now seemed different to Charlotte. She had put her hair up before going to Haughton, and so had cast off the last vestiges of childhood, and the absence of Beatrix made her feel older, for she advanced to some degree into Beatrix's vacant place. Lord Mardale paid more attention to her than in former years, and sometimes in his talk to her she caught an echo of the gay humour which had always marked his attitude towards Beatrix.

When Alfred arrived at Haughton, Charlotte felt that another conspirator against Beatrix had arrived, for the silence seemed to her a conspiracy to extinguish all memory of the transgressor. She believed, indeed, that it stood for condemnation, and was
pained to feel that Beatrix was condemned when she was not there to defend herself. She herself dared not speak of Beatrix to Lord or Lady Mardale, but she determined that she would speak to Alfred, and she did so the day after his arrival as they strolled together under the beeches on the lawns in front of the house.

“Ever since I arrived here,” she said bluntly, “I have felt as if Beatrix were dead. Not a soul dares to mention her name.”

Alfred responded at once, as if he were glad that she had given him the opportunity. “Do you know, Charlotte, we heard almost nothing from Lady Hadlow of what happened. She wrote to my mother at the time saying simply that Beatrix had run away from home and married against her consent. My mother showed me the letter. ‘So now, my dear friend,' it ended, ‘I have only one daughter.' That is all I know. Lady Hadlow may have told my mother more since you and she arrived here, but of that I know nothing.”