The Ballad and the Source (22 page)

“You did go to Florence?”

“I received a telegram from that woman, in answer to my letter. It said:
Come at once.
I took the next train and went straight from the station to her house. She was waiting for me. We had our second—and last—interview.”

“Was Ianthe there too?”

“No.”

“Nor
him?
—Mr. Connor?”

“No.”

“I wonder where they were.”

“Ianthe had gone.”

“You mean—run away?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Wasn't she—were they unkind to her?” Then realisation broke; and with a rush of relief at seeing my own lights spark once, however feebly, I gasped:
“Oh!
I see!
Him
and her—they'd run away together!”

“Precisely. Vanished.”

I was seized with sudden apprehension, and was obliged at the risk of irrevocable disgrace to falter out:

“You do mean
Paul
and her?”

“I do. But how perspicacious of you! I myself was uncertain beforehand. It was a huge relief.”

Over-encouraged, I said:

“You were pleased?”

“I had no time,” she said curtly, “to examine all my feelings on the point. It was a moment of the utmost
immediacy.
The shock was no trivial one, even at the best. I had to summon all my resources. I had to deal with
her,
the woman, first. We had something to say to one another: more
not
to say. That was understood on both sides. She was not a clever woman—on the contrary, she was an ignorant woman of lowish mentality; and a hard-pressed one, and a frightened one. Hysteria might well have broken loose and swept away the boundaries of what was permissible between us. However, she kept her self-control­­—I was obliged to admire her. Congested, taut-necked, gobble-eyed as a hen-turkey; but preserving the decencies. Oh yes, we made a decent fighting end.”

I saw them, the two, in a foreign room with green shutters. Since it was a kind of room totally unfamiliar to me, yet plausible and clear in all its details, I can but think that she was projecting from her own vision on to mine the very room they met in. Sun came through the closed shutters in narrow bars, and there was a general stone-grey look; and a lot of china cabinets and stiff brocaded furniture. They sat facing one another in high-backed chairs, hands folded in their laps, still as tigers; one cased in black, like a Victorian lodging-house keeper, the other all light and flowing elegance.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She said she would protect her husband. I mean, that was the essence of what she had to say.”

This was unexpected.

“I didn't think grown-up men had to be protected,” I said finally.

“Ah, naturally you would think otherwise. You would think it was a man's part to protect; to guard with a father's solicitude the young girl committed to his care?”

“Yes. Because that's what he said to you, didn't he?—about a sacred trust and all that. Hadn't he guarded her?”

“He had behaved—as I had guessed he would. I told her so. Had not we both known it, I said? Was not that the reason of our secret pact? I thought I could be as direct as that. But she would not answer. Dumbness came up and darkened her, choked her.
‘
She is a bad girl,' was all she said.
‘
I wanted her out of the house. She's gone; and good riddance to her.' I presumed, I said, that her husband had gone in search of her.
‘
He may have,' she said.
‘
I don't know where he is. But he'll come back. And he won't bring
her.
He knows he can't, after what's happened. It would never do.' That was the way she spoke: the vocabulary of a refined housemaid. It was not for me to suggest that he might, in his desperation, have done himself some mischief; but she read my meaning.
‘
He'll come back,' she persisted.
‘
I know he will. He knows I know what went on; but he knows I won't let it come to a scandal. I told him I'd see it didn't, and he knows he can trust me. If there should be any rumours, we'll live them down,' she said. I suggested that this might be difficult in view of the circumstances, but she replied: ‘If you give me away, I'll give you away. And if you give
him
away I'll tell it out to all the world what that girl was. We're respected here—more than respected. He's looked up to by all, worshipped pretty nearly for a man of God. What's happened? She's gone off with a man. What will they say if I tell them that? They'll say: Bad blood will out.' … Yes, she was very forceful.”

All this had been spoken without a trace of passion, as if in mild amazement at such
a manifestation
of human behaviour.

“Inconsistent,” she added in a thoughtful way, “but extraordinarily forceful. ‘A fortnight's passed,' she said.
‘
Any questions I've been asked I've said she's gone on her first visit to her mother, as arranged. That's good enough: and that's all I shall say. Any questions about her return, and I shall say it's been agreed she shall finish her education in England, with relations of her father.' She told me, and I think she spoke the truth, that my letter had come to her as a shock and a surprise. She had assumed that they would come to me.
‘
You sent him for her, didn't you?
'
she said.
‘
I took it for granted you knew what you were about. I don't suppose you sent him for
my
sake.'” Again Mrs. Jardine marked the thrust with a mild raising of her brows. “She was right there, of course. I had no interest in attempting to deny it.
‘
You did your part,' she said. ‘And I did mine. If it was for
her
sweet sake you wanted her out of my house—well, she's out. It's not my fault if it hasn't turned out as you meant it. My part was to see they had their opportunities—which I did.' It seems the man Connor had had to make some journey or visit just about the time that Paul arrived. That greatly facilitated matters. It was a strange intervention of Fate—I cannot but see it so. But it was a strange mix-up, all of it, from the beginning.
Who
started
what?
I ask myself. Who was responsible? Sometimes I seem to see us all as
taken charge of.
The stage set and empty, the threads drawn all together, the knot tied.
…”

“Did they run away while he was on the visit?”

“It seems not. It seems he came back, discovered what was afoot. Some fearful scene took place, I fancy—but she would not tell me. Whether Paul faced him, accused him, I do not know—whether after this they went hand in hand out of the house; or whether …”

“What?”

“It could have been as the woman said
…”

“What did she say?”

She did not answer me, but continued in a muttering, staring way:

“An act of hysteria—cunning?—unpremeditated?
…
She was
trapped.
She must be released—no matter how. … Yet I do not know. He had enough experience of clamouring women—he was very nimble, he could look after himself. No. I have always been sure he fell
deeply
in love with the girl. And one must take into account her hatred of Ianthe, her raging jealousy.”

“She really and truly hated her?”

“Yes. I have told you why. I presume that as time went on her position grew more and more desperate.”

“She felt more and more left out?”

“You could put it in that way.”

“I don't suppose Ianthe meant to be unkind.”

“Her language with regard to Ianthe was extremely strong,” remarked Mrs. Jardine in the same surprised way. “I have more than once been astonished by the grossness of vocabulary­­­ such so-called gentlewomen are capable of. Where do they learn it?… The gist of it was that Ianthe had insinuated herself, wily, predatory; had wound herself round and round this husband of hers; then when the next man came along, had flung herself at
his
head.”

“It must have seemed queer—not very nice—hearing her say nasty things like that about Ianthe. To her own mother!”

“It was curious,” agreed Mrs. Jardine. “But interesting. Another light on Ianthe's character. Allowing, of course, for prejudice, and for the crudity of an inexperienced old maid, I could not altogether dismiss the possibility of an element of truth in what she said.”

“How do you mean?” I said, surprised at her slip of the tongue about Mrs. Connor's married status, but deciding to let it pass.

“That Ianthe was corrupt.”

“Bad?”

“Bad. Something amiss with her moral nature. A warp. The hypothesis is plausible. How indeed should it have been other­wise? Her instincts over-stimulated, directed into unnatural channels. … At the same time enjoined to loathe her body's functions and desires. Imagine the confusion, the shame for the wretched girl.” But she was addressing herself, not me. “Next, the other gentleman! Ach! I know the breed. He would enfold her, no doubt, in a pestiferous miasma of sanctified sensuality. Have her helpless under his magnetic eye and hand. I saw his hands! White, sinuous, hirsute. Long padded finger tips. Hmm. … Adept to place the secret mark upon her, the honourable stigma. The sin, the bliss, the expiation. … Oh, ecstasy and terror to be thus chosen, set apart! Ah, he would groan over her no doubt—repent—
pray—fall
again.” Her fingers tapped on the tea-table. “Or I have thought—a different initiation. Cynical. Brutal. Anonymous. Threats. Bribes.”

I had planned to finish up with shortbread biscuits, and began now to complete my design. Mrs. Jardine had fallen into brooding; but after a while she continued on a different note:

“
‘
I did not give birth to a moral delinquent,' I said.
‘
I made her without a flaw. She was torn from my hands. Who has made her the sick creature you say she has become? Two masterly practitioners. One was my husband. Shall I name the other?
' ‘
Are you insinuating,' she said,
‘
he's done anything
wrong
with her? He never would have—never! He wanted to guide her. She tried her tricks on him, she tried to tempt him—I saw her game. No man's a plaster saint, not even the best. She ruined his peace of mind.'” Again Mrs. Jardine brooded. “I dare say she did,” she added dryly. “But what pitiful rubbish!”

“Did you tell her you thought so?”

“No. I said little. My duty was to
hear
as much as possible. I had to have every available light. Whatever conclusions one was led to, it was clear that Ianthe's future presented a grave problem.”

“Didn't you answer back anything at all?” For it really seemed as if, this time, she had actually let someone else do all the talking.

“I asked practical questions. I wished to find them, you see. But she had nothing useful to tell me. The day before it happened, she had seen him for two minutes. He had come suddenly into the room, looking pale, she said.”

“What did he come for?”

“To say he was going to take her away. Those were his words, she said.
‘
I am going to take her away.'”

“What did she say to him?”

“Nothing.
‘
It was his look-out—and yours,' she said to me.
‘
I washed my hands of it. I liked him,' she said.
‘
He had very pleasant manners. He knew my home, where I was born—I should have liked to talk to him more about it. If he was weak like all the rest, the slave of a pretty face, it wasn't my business to tell him so.' No, she could give me no clues at all—she was quite genuine in this. So I left her.”

There was a prolonged silence.

“Did you find them?” I said at last.

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back to France, to my home.”

“And told Harry all about it?”

“Yes, I was obliged to tell Harry.”

“What did he say?”

She paused.

“He was angry.” Her eyes flicked. “He wished to take violent measures—denounce—expose—institute immediate police inquiries. But I could not have that. How could I have done that to them?” Her voice became a poignant cry. “Set the police on their tracks, make them a public scandal? Harry could not understand. He did not know all the—the labyrinth, the complications. Oh Paul! Ianthe! What could I do now for them but let them alone, permit them their choice—to be lost to me, to ignore me, leave me in the outer darkness of lonely suspense and anxiety? Their only chance. Mine too, perhaps. I fought him for it.”

“Harry?”

She nodded. Shaking, she leaned forward. The opaqueness of flesh and bone seemed to drain out of her face, leaving it in the half-transparency of a white lamp; and over it slipped that shining fall of tears, so phenomenal, so inhuman in its unchecked profusion: as if an object, a holy relic, should flow suddenly, weeping absolute tears for the world.

I waited for them to stop, but they did not; so I said with rather nagging insistence, to try to stop them:

“What did you think would happen, really and truly, in the beginning, I mean, when you arranged it?”

She dried her eyes and cheeks with her little handkerchief.

“Oh, arranged! What did I arrange? I was hard-pressed too. They think me made of steel and ice, a flail—I am not so. I wanted my own. Tear a mother from her child—they shall see what devils they raise.” She leaned back, her lips blue, and began to relax. “Rebecca, it comes over me again, again. That child was hard pressed. She had too much to bear. She needed her childhood,—a long blank stretch of time by the seashore, digging castles in the sand, picking up shells and stones, exploring the rock pools. How I loved that!—do not you?—better than anything else in the world. I still do. Ianthe would have loved that. … Or a piece of earth to make into a garden. Making things grow—flowers and fruit and vegetables. That would have been good too—I have done all these things myself, and been healed by them. Instead, what did I do? I put
man
between us—again, again!
…
as if that sword, that alone, had not separated us from the beginning; as if she were not wounded enough by
that
already! I matched them with calculations as cruel, as sterile as their own. I sent her
man
—his archetype—a whole
world
of man —to complete her desolating knowledge. I sent her that one.”