Was He the Other?

Chapter I

I am the youngest girl of a large family. There are, I think, generally some peculiarities about the youngest member of a family, especially about the youngest girl. Large families have a way of checking themselves off rather arbitrarily. For instance, there is almost always a beauty, a genius, a saint, and a useful one. In addition to these the eldest is, of course, the eldest, and the youngest the youngest. Sometimes outsiders see more beauty in the saint or genius, or find more wit in the beauty or the useful one, even possibly in the eldest or the youngest ; or they may so far differ from the arbitration of the family as to think some one member both the beauty and the wit. How the family arrives at its A ? 2 decision I have never been able to make out ; it almost looks as if each successive infant were labelled by its parents and elder sisters, quite irrespective of its claims.

Anyhow, I have observed that the family seldom, if ever, departs from its decision. To be the last of the brood is generally considered a sufficient distinction. The chief feature about the youngest, especially about the youngest girl, is that she is never allowed to be quite grown up. " Once the youngest, always the youngest," deserves to become a pro verb. She is liable to be called Baby all her life. She remains longer in the nursery and the schoolroom than the elder girls, for she has no successors to crowd her out and push her on, first into the schoolroom and then into the world. If her sisters do not marry off rapidly, it is convenient to keep her back a bit to give them a longer chance. It may be that her parents cling to the last of their little ones, and wilfully ignore the fact ? 3 that the nursery and the schoolroom exist in actuality no longer.

Her elder sisters, sometimes, if they are sentimental and womanly, and have remained un married, seem to adopt her as their own child, and lavish on her all the spoiling and affection that they would gladly have bestowed on their own children. The Baby is not allowed to travel alone, walk alone, or even sit alone, at the same age at which her sisters were thoroughly emancipated. She is hardly allowed to choose her own dresses or to lay out her own pocket money. She may not form her own friendships, nor make her own plans. However over ripe, waning, or non-existent her charms may be, she is sometimes as much protected and hampered at thirty as at eighteen. I do not fancy that in my own case there was much danger of my being made too much of a youngest. It may be that a mother is required to keep up ? 4 this tender fiction of perpetual youth.

Mine was dead, and my father, a country clergyman and a great Hebrew scholar, took but little heed of any of us, least of all, perhaps, of me. My eldest sister, Jane, too, was quite absorbed in the parish, and showed no symptoms of that chronic disappointment in love which sometimes calls forth a vast amount of latent motherliness. The two next sisters were married, and lived far away from our little Devonshire village, and the others were either too busy or too near my own age to indulge in any romantic vagaries. Furthermore, I do not think I am made of such stuff as these perpetual youngests generally are. Anyhow, I was determined not to be held in bondage. Fortune favoured me, for my grandmother left me a little money, nearly two hundred a year, which went a long way towards making me independent of my family.

My first decisive strike for freedom was to go to college. My private fortune ? 5 enabled me to do so without much strain on my father's resources, nor need for me to exert myself to win a scholarship or purse. I did not go to college in order to get learned. It seemed my best chance at that time of seeing the world a bit and rescuing myself from being too much the youngest. I read fairly steadily, and played tennis a good deal. I took a creditable degree, distinguished myself moderately in tennis and rowing, and made one great friend, Effie Blanchard. My fellow students did not interest me much. They were little better than schoolgirls. They were as frightened at cows and thunderstorms as the most unlettered. They sniggered over their letters, bedizened their rooms with photographs of good-looking actors, and blushed at the younger professors as if they were at an old-fashioned boarding school.

They thought chiefly of passing their "exams" and getting professorships and situations at twenty or thirty pounds ? 6 a year more than they would otherwise have obtained. Their pleasures and ambitions seemed to me very trivial and mean. I did not judge them fairly, I know. I admit, now, that I was a bit of a prig. I think I have a fairly strong character, and that, when one is young and inexperienced, is likely to make one intolerant and unjust. Effie Blanchard attracted me a great deal. She was a few years older than I. She was not strong, and had, like myself, come to college less for education than for distraction. Both her "parents were dead ; she had recently been cruelly jilted by a man to whom she had been engaged for some time, and her only brother had married and gone to Aus tralia.

Her plan was eventually to emigrate also, and set up a school in the colonies. But her principal reason for coming to Girton was self-discipline. Having no religious or philanthropic call, and no family ties, she feared she might drift into invalidishness and ? 7 chronic discontent. This resolute "putting herself to school," as she termed it, excited my admiration as soon as I understood it. Her constant sympathy and patience made me her most ardent admirer, I may almost say worshipper, during my residence at college, and indeed ever since. I poured out upon Effie an immense amount of hero-worship. I fell in love with her with an almost man-like inten sity. I expect my devotion to Effie kept my heart from fluttering over stray professors and athletic curates like those of the other girls of my acquaintance.

Though I affected great contempt for love and marriage, I was in reality extremely romantic. I put on an armour of cynicism over as foolishly feminine a heart as ever beat. At the end of my third year there seemed nothing for me to do but to return home. I had no particular hobby except mankind. I was prepared to take ? 8 human nature for my theme, but a beginning to the tangled web was yet to be discovered. Man was my favourite study — not individually, but in a general sense, as a sort of abstract science. I thought I might possibly write some day on this subject. I believed, and I believe so still, that the proper study for mankind is man, and that a woman is likely to be the best person to do it. I have not written my book, however, nor ever shall ; I have only collected a few materials.

I spent nearly a year at home reading in a desultory, unsatisfactory sort of way, and taking notes of my neighbours. I read a good deal of poetry and novels, especially French novels, and dabbled a little in psychology, physiology, and sociology. I did not take up much parish work. That was more Jane's province ; and I did not fancy that in mothers' meetings and infant schools I could gather much material for my great work. ? 9 I must have been in rather an anoma lous state of mind at this time. I had inherited from my parents, and my early surroundings had fostered, an eminently Puritanic, almost Pharisaic, spirit. To this I had added a considerable amount of knowledge, at second hand of course, from Flaubert and Gyp, of a very gay and naughty world. I was curiously interested in and yet horrified by the improprieties of others.

I think now, on looking back, that my state of mind was thoroughly unwholesome. My almost prurient interest in vice was due to a great extent to the unnatural atmosphere in which I had been born and brought up. It was not due so much to any overt acts of repression as to inherited prejudices and conventionali ties. Only many generations of rational training and development can remedy this — if indeed any remedy is required. I am still at times so much influenced by my Puritanic bias, that I cannot tell whether much that I have learned to ? 10 endure in others, much that I would under given circumstances have done myself, much that I actually have done, is not wholly and unpardonably wrong.

Chapter II

In the spring of the year following my return home from college, I received an invitation from a sister of my mother's to stay with her in London for a few weeks. I did not know my aunt, Mrs. Bathurst, at all well. I had, in fact, only seen her once or twice, when I was a very little girl. She was a widow and lived chiefly in London. She went a good deal into society, and had never had time to visit ps at our quiet vicarage. She had had one daughter, whom, as I learnt before long, she had toiled night and day to marry, or, as she termed it, to settle. Aunt Bessie loved society dearly. Whether her labours on behalf of her child were ? 12 at first really disinterested, and intended as the best she could do for her, or whether to settle Claire was all along only an excuse for struggling to every festivity to which she could possibly get access, I don't know.

I only know that when I knew her she had as keen an appetite for society as the youngest and prettiest debutante, and I am inclined to suspect that pretty delicate Claire was a mere excuse to her for going out as much as possible. My poor little cousin had died in the struggle to get a husband, about two years before my invitation to town. Aunt Bessie was left with broken hopes, frustrated ambitions, and an insa tiable love of the world. Naturally people did not ask her out now as much as before ; they could not suppose that she cared for dances on her own account, or even for dinners and receptions. Their lists were very full, they had plenty of newer, brighter, and more attractive acquaintances, so they readily took her bereavement for granted, ? 13 and omitted her name from their invitations.

Aunt Bessie fretted over the neglect of society to a very considerable extent. She could not induce more than a small residue of her old friends to take com passion on her solitude, and invite her to meet two or three hundred more people than their rooms could possibly contain. As the third season after her "darling Claire's " death came round she felt, I suppose, that she really must bestir herself if she were to keep afloat in the social world at all. She, therefore, determined to import a niece, and selected me. I gather that she chose me rather than Fanny — our beauty — on account of my small private income. " Fanny," I can fancy her saying, "though pretty, is nothing out of the common, nothing better than dozens of the girls of the coming season, whereas Geraldine has money, and money goes further than looks nowadays."

Of course, Aunt Bessie did not enter ? 14 into these explanations in her letter to me. Subsequent study of her has enabled me to read between its lines. It was merely an affectionate, pathetic, rather gushing little epistle, to the effect that she was so very lonely without her darling Claire, would I take pity on her and pay her a little visit in Eaton Terrace? She could not promise me much gaiety ; as, of course, since her darling's death she had lost all heart for society, but there were still a few houses of intimate friends, friends who positively insisted on her going to their parties, to which she could take me ; if I was not afraid of being too dreadfully dull, would I come ? The letter affected me quite genuinely. It struck just the right chord at the moment. I wanted to be of use to some one.

I was sick of the desultory, aim less life I had led for the last year. I was not wanted at home. There were so many of us. My eldest sister Jane attended to the parish. My next sister, ? 15 Kate, was absorbed in her musical studies and ambitions. The other girls did the housekeeping, society, and general odds and ends. I wasnot wanted at all, and I felt it. I was suffering severely from mental growing pains. I was disgusted even with the literature which had hitherto interested me. I felt out of heart about everything and everybody. Aunt Bessie's invitation opened to me a pro spect of a wide field of study in my favourite branch, besides giving me an opportunity of being really of use to some one. Of course, when I accepted the invitation I had no idea that I was to be made into a social catspaw.

I don't fancy, however, that the knowledge would have deterred me, for when it dawned upon me, I was more amused than displeased at it. After I had answered the letter, I told my family of my intended visit. I did not mention it before, as I dislike discussing my plans, and always prefer ? 16 keeping my own counsel as long as possible. I think my sisters were rather relieved at my approaching departure. Those nearer my age were glad to have the field clear once more. They maintained that I frightened the eligible young men away by my haughtiness, and real or pretended cleverness. The elder girls had long chafed at my idleness and uselessness. Jane could not understand why I took no interest in the parish, as I did not appear to care for society ; and Kate marvelled at my not settling to some definite ambition, as she had done at less than my age.

My dear old father, too, was glad to let me go, I think. He was a little afraid both of me and for me. I feel sure now that he understood my sisters' latent hostility towards me far more than he thought it advisable to show, and was not sorry I should have an opportunity of escape from it. I think he regarded me as the ugly duckling of ? 17 his brood, whose possible development into a swan had better be carried out away from the pecks and cacklings of the others. B

Chapter III

I travelled up to London without an escort. I have always scorned such of my sex who fear to travel alone, and have even asserted that if they get into any trouble it is quite their own fault. Railway travelling has always excited me somewhat. The rapid passage through the air, the noise, ' shouting, slamming of doors, ringing of bells, and whistling of engines, though discordant and unpleasant in themselves, were verily music to my ears on this occasion. I was off on a new enterprise. I was going among people whom I had never seen before. I had a new life to lead — a new game to play. The old creeping, tedious home life, with occupations labor iously manufactured by myself and for myself, was left behind. I was going ? 19 into a big,, full, active city. I should meet clever people, learned people, witty people ; I should find real things to laugh and to cry over ; I needed to dream dreams no longer : I was going to live.

During the first part of my journey there were no other occupants of my carriage, or rather compartment, to speak more correctly ; it is so feminine to con fuse carriage and compartment. At Taunton, where I had to change trains, I found myself in the company of a gentleman. I was rather glad. I like fellow travellers, provided they are not babies, as it is a relief from reading or thinking to listen to other people's talk and observe their travelling idiosyn crasies. My companion was undeniably good looking. He was tall, upright and well proportioned. Rather "between colours," fortune tellers would have said, that is, neither dark nor fair. His hair was brownish, his eyes were grey, and his ? 20 moustache was slightly darker than his hair. On entering the carriage he eyed me up and down, seeming to take stock of me, and then seated himself in the further corner, opposite my place.

I had a book open in my hands. I generally read when I am travelling alone. I have always maintained that a book is a quite sufficient chaperon, as no one can talk to one if one is reading. I may not have kept my attention very closely to my page on this occasion, or it may have been an exception to the rule, for presently the man spoke to me. It was merely to suggest putting my bundle of wraps that lay beside me on the seat in the rack above. I thought it unnecessarily interfering of him, but replied civilly that as the place was not wanted at present I had rather keep my wraps at hand. He did not speak again for some little time. But I felt he was watching me, ? 21 and I could not help looking up at him once or twice. I began to feel rather uncomfortable, and resolved to go on reading without taking any further notice of him.

Pre sently he remarked, very coolly, that I did not appear to be much interested in my book. "You have not turned a page for more than ten minutes," he said. I felt rather nervous and flustered. I firmly believed it possible to talk with a perfect stranger without running any risk of annoyance, but was at the same time rather vexed by his minute observation of me. I assured him that I was interested, in a tone intended to repress him, but which did not, I suppose, come off exactly as I had meant. " May I ask what it is ? " he asked. I was too gauche to keep silent or even to prevaricate. It chanced to be rather a queer book for a girl to read at all, still more to speak of to a man. ? 22 He laughed, I thought, disagreeably, and replied, " Not a very suitable book for a girl." I did not answer.

Nothing daunted, he spoke again after a moment's pause — "You had better shut it up and talk to me. You will find me much more amusing." " I shall do nothing of the sort," I answered, hotly, and in my confusion and annoyance I dropped the volume. "That's right!" he cried; "I knew you would !" ". Nonsense," I exclaimed, forgetting propriety in my irritation ; "I am inter ested in it, and will go on reading it this moment." " No, you won't," he answered, imper turbably. " Don't you see, I have no book, so it would be only common good nature and Christianity in you to entertain me a little, or to let me entertain you. Don't go on reading." Flis voice was really very persuasive. ? 23 " I shall — I can," I said, struggling with a strong attraction, that was very far from liking, for this man. I took up the book once more, and read a few lines.

Presently, however, I felt I could not go on any longer, "Are you mesmerising me ?" I asked, almost frightened. " No ; I am not so commonplace," he answered, " I assure you, I am doing nothing of the kind. You are only thinking that I am possibly more inter esting than the book, and are influenced by Mrs. Grundy against talking to me. It is she who is mesmerising you, if any one." " I am not affected by Mrs. Grundy," I said quickly, " I am willing to talk to you if you will really be more interesting than Thompson." " I will try to be," he replied, a scarcely perceptible smile of triumph playing round his mouth. It irritated me, and put me on the defensive once more. ? 24 " I give you five minutes," I said coldly ; " if in that time you are not more entertaining than my book, I shall go on reading."

This I thought dignified and judici ous. "All right," he replied, looking at his watch. "In five minutes we are due at Bath. After that we shall not stop again for nearly an hour, so you will then have a clear spell for your studies." I wondered whether he could possibly plunge at once, in so brief and limited a time, into any really interesting sub ject. He began without delay, taking a theme which was pretty safe to interest another, for it interested the speaker, namely, himself. There was no mistake about it; he did indeed succeed in interesting me, and in arousing my sympathy too. As soon as we had shown our tickets at Bath, and had started once more on ? 25 our journey, I asked him a question calculated to set him off once more on his story. He did not immediately reply to my query, but smilingly asked me whether I would not rather go on with my book.

" No, no," I cried; "you are by far the more interesting. Men so seldom talk candidly to us women." He had moved nearer to me, as it was so awkward shouting confidences across the carriage. He had tossed my wraps on to the opposite seat and leant eagerly towards me. " I have never told this to another soul before — man or woman," he said ; " I can't think why I have done so now. I am like the fellow in the Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read it ? Better not. A horrid book. No one but my Maker, you, myself, and the woman knows this story. You are extraordinarily fas cinating ! " I felt foolishly flattered. Confidences, too, are so very captivating. ? " Tell me," he continued eagerly, " do you blame me ' altogether ? Do you think that, under the circumstances, I could have acted differently ? have done better by her ?

" " I don't know," I said ; "it is all so strange and bewildering to me. You ought not, of course, to have got into the circumstances. But once in, I think, you did the best you could. Only you ought never to have got into the scrape at all." " Of course, I shouldn't have, but I am terribly impulsive. Thank you for let ting me tell you the story," he added. "Thank you. It has done me good to tell it to a woman, to a sympathetic woman." I did not know what to answer exactly, so murmured something about being very glad to be of any use, and wishing I could have advised him better. Suddenly he leant towards me, and throwing his arm round my shoulder, exclaimed — ? 27 " Do you know you are very beau tiful?" He was flushed and excited. I felt greatly startled. "Oh, no, I am not!" I replied. "Don't say anything so silly, and please let me go !

" Seeing my agitation, he tried to draw me closer to him, and to kiss me. " I love you ! " he exclaimed. "Don't, don't!" I cried, shrinking from the touch of a man whom I felt by all the canons of my early training I ought to loathe and fear. " Pooh ! Nonsense," he exclaimed. "It must please you to be told that you are beautiful, and a kiss can do you no harm. It leaves no stain." "Let me go!" I nearly shrieked, springing up ; "I don't know you. I ought not to have spoken to you. Do you want me to call the guard ? " How I should have despised any other girl who could not take better care of herself than I had done, and felt her- ? self reduced to calling the assistance of the guard. " I don't think you will," he answered quietly. " It means stopping the train, exciting the curiosity of your fellow passengers, charging me with assault before a magistrate, having your name bandied about in the papers, etc., etc.

No, you will accept my apologies like a sensible girl, and drop the sub ject." So saying, he withdrew to his former seat in the further corner. I wondered whether he thought to disarm me by his self-command, and so to draw me on, or whether he was really resolved to behave like a gentleman once more. I felt by no means elated by my victory. I was ruffled, frightened, ashamed of myself, and deeply disappointed. As we neared the next station I collected my wits sufficiently to say — " Either you or I must leave this compartment. I should prefer that you ? 29 did so. I will then ask the guard to lock me in." " Very good," he answered sulkily. " I'll go. But before I go, will you for give me for my impulsive action ? I must have been mad. Upon my soul, I meant you no real harm. And I love you.

I do, I do indeed. Will you forgive me ? " He held out his hand. I took it, hardly knowing what I did, but a great pity came over me for this man, bad and dreadful as I thought him. "Yes," I murmured; "I do forgive you. I believe you were mad at the moment. I am very sorry for you." Whether he pulled me or whether the train jolted, I don't know ; I think it was the latter, and that he was really inno cent this time, but I found myself suddenly jerked almost into his arms. " Let me go," I cried angrily. At this moment the train stopped. " Good-bye," he said humbly ; " I wonder if I shall ever see you again ! ? 30 You have not really forgiven me, I can see. You will never trust me again, I suppose ? " " I don't know," I said. " Go now, at all events, and at once, please." I felt so terribly agitated that I feared if I was not immediately left alone, I should faint or cry, or do something desperately young ladyish.

CHAPTER .IV. I completed my journey without further adventure. My unwelcome com panion made no attempt to join me again, nor to speak to me at Paddington. The whole affair had profoundly mortified and disappointed me. I had always, hitherto, believed in the cap ability of a sensible woman to take care of herself under any circumstances. I had also believed it possible for men and women to form friendships, and had despised those foolish ones of my sex who think every man they meet is either actually in love with them or on the verge of being so. I was on the horns of a dilemma. Either that I was as incapable as the weakest woman of taking care of myself, or that all men ? 32 were blackguards. Neither horn afforded me a comfortable resting-place. I tried hard to exonerate myself and to cast all the blame on my companion.

But I felt bound to admit that I had possibly given him a false impression, and had partially brought the insult upon myself. I felt sincerely sorry for him. That he was a man of strong passion and ill-balanced will was evident alike from his story and from his conduct. And yet he had very creditably pulled himself up and checked his sudden and most unlooked-for attraction towards my self. Was I then really beautiful ? The question returned to me again and again like a caress. Might I feel some for giveness, some kindness for him in consideration of his repentance and amendment ? I dared not answer the question. I steadfastly assured myself that he was a villain and I a fool. My aunt received me with a consider- ? 33 able display of affection. When she had led me into the soft flattering light of her rather shabby little drawing-room, I observed an expression of pleasure and surprise come into her face.

"Dear child!" she exclaimed; "do you know you are quite a beauty ? " It was somewhat startling to me to hear the same remark made in almost the same words so shortly after my recent adventure. I stammered and coloured like a schoolgirl. "Yes, yes, of course you know it!" she cried, laughing, and patting my cheek. " But somehow I did not expect it. Upon my word, it is lucky ! " she added, more to herself than to me. "You must be very tired," she resumed. " Indeed, you look it ! It is such a long journey. But I hope it was fairly comfortable, and that you had no adven tures ? " "It was very interesting," I answered, evasively. My aunt looked puzzled. c ? 34 • "How can a railway journey be interesting ? " she asked. " I have not travelled much, you see," I explained. "There is always plenty to look at and to hear and to think about, you know."