The Romance of Mrs. Wodehouse

Front matter

BY Mrs. Harcourt-Roe AUTHOR OF "A MAN OF MYSTERY", "THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH ", "THE SILENT ROOM", "WHOSE WIFE?" ETC, ETC. XonOon 1896 HUTCHINSON & CO. 34 PATERNOSTER ROW. E.C. 1'BlNTEs) AT NIMEGUEN (HOLI.ANn) OT H. C. 4. TB1EME OF NIMEOUBN (HOIXANFi) AND 27 SHOE LANE, LONDON, E.C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. AN UNCOMFORTABLE HOUSEHOLD I II. AN UNEQUAL YOKE 1 5 III. MR. DENHAM SMITH 27 IV. A VISIT TO BRANSING TORTE 46 V. LOVEMAKING 59 VI. MRS. WODEHOUSE 65 VII. OLD FRIENDS 7. VIII. MRS. JONES 91 IX. A STRANGE AVOWAL II? X. REFLECTION 13° XI. A HAPPY MEETING 14 • XII. THE ELOPEMENT 1 58 XIII. CALLED TO ACCOUNT 162 XIV. PORTSMOUTH AND THE VICTORY 1 76 XV. THE FOREIGN OFFICERS VI CONTENTS PAGE

CHAPTER XVI. DOMESTIC SERVICE

2 ' x XVII. H.M.S. VENUS 2i ' XVIII. GOOD NEWS 252 XIX. A JOYFUL TIME 26° XX. AN AMAZING REVELATION 27& XXI. AN OLD STORY 29° XXH. EXETER CATHEDRAL 3°6 xxrn. suspense 3:8 XXIV. CONFESSION 324 XXV. RETRIBUTION 334 XXVI. A CHOICE OF RESIDENCE

Chapter I. An Uncomfortable Household

One problem perpetually exercised the mind of Mabel Rayner. And the problem was this. Why was she, glowing with life and energy, full of, as yet, undeveloped force, compelled to lead a se cluded life? There seemed no reason for this seclusion. Her father was a man of good means, his house was large, well appointed, beautifully situated; in her opinion it should have been full of guests. But staying guests were never invited. There were wide gardens with close shaven tennis and croquet lawns, noble spreading trees of ancient growth, glass houses in abundance in which rare orchids and plants and forced fruit flourished. Yet tennis and croquet parties were never given, troops of friends did not go through the conservatories audibly admiring some supremely coveted orchid, the while envy that they could not add it to their own collection was in their hearts; a few near neighbours came to call, but all invitations which included Mabel were refused.

The girl was unhappy. A terrace walk skirting the steep railway banks and the broad river beyond formed the southern boundary, and along this narrow grass-grown path she would pace by the hour together. She looked across the waters, now clear and reflecting every passing sail and shadow, now stormy with wind, and saw the peaceful shore opposite, the old windmills with their slowly revolv ing arms, the green fields and hedges, the red-tiled roofs, the tall chimneys, but the scene had no power to soothe her. The waters were flowing to the sea to the ocean beyond, the vessels sailed up and down, the steamers, towing flotillas of small craft went by, but she alone was stationary, immovable it seemed to her. Years ago, as she watched the red sunset which threw its soft light on the old chalk quarry and the river beyond, she had said to herself, ; The river is wide, The sea is deep, My life is narrow,' and these words had now grown into a formula, she found herself constantly repeating them when ever she was alone.

In all her eighteen years she had never visited a large town, had only twice gone away from her native village, and the remembrance of these two sojourns, spent in the society of her mother, was still a most painful recollection, owing to the life she had been compelled to lead while away. It is true she might wander along the roads where the trees met overhead, and the cattle grazed by the roadside, overlooked by sleepy lads, but any approach to the town five miles distant was strictly forbidden by her mother. One indulgence only was permitted: an unlimited i supply of books. She had read largely, books of foreign travel, books of adventure, books of London life, and she had grown to loathe the circumscribed area of the river, the village street, the old church with its sweet chime of bells, the primitive station with cultivated banks of flowers, the same shops, the same people, the same conversation, the same ailments.

There were times when she declared to herself she would gladly change places with a tiger in a jungle! The sound of a gong roused her from a prolonged reverie ; she sauntered slowly back, crossing the lawn, and, when in sight of the house, deliberately seated herself beneath a large copper beech, instead of going in to luncheon. She was a fine, well grown girl, with an erect, and somewhat stately, carriage. Her complexion was fair, but not insipid, her features were good, her eyes blue and clear. Her hair was golden brown and wavy, her teeth were even and white. When she smiled she was a remarkably pretty girl, but her habitual expression was that of discon tent, which considerably marred her beauty. "Mabel," a stern voice called; "come to lunch at once. You heard the gong, I am sure." Mabel walked leisurely towards the house and entered the dining-room through a large conser vatory, one mass of gorgeous bloom and huge maidenhair ferns.

" I did hear the gong, " she said, " but after what you said to me an hour ago, simply because I forgot to put fresh flowers in the drawing-room, I did not feel at all inclined to sit down to table with you." "Neither shall you do so now," returned Mrs. Rayner. "Go at once to your room and remain there until this evening. You will occupy yourself in translating the whole of the Times leading articles into good French, and you will stay in your room, be it a month hence, until this is done satisfactorily. " Mabel went upstairs. She was too angry to trust herself to reply. " If my father were not coming home I would run away," she exclaimed at length. "I sometimes think he is an angel and she is a devil; — while I am a mixture of both," she added with a pitiful little laugh. She knew that the task must be fulfilled, and after a time took out her writing materials.

"When I have finished it, as likely as not she will tell me to do it over again, no matter how I try. If I had any money I zvould run away." Meantime Mrs. Rayner sat down to luncheon, holding a foreign letter in her hand, at which she glanced from time to time, a cloud on her brow. She was a dark handsome woman, with bright brown eyes, which at times became hard and fierce. At the conclusion of the meal she went for a drive, having previously locked her daughter securely in. She had not left the house ten minutes when a visitor arrived, a visitor who, to judge by appearances, should have gone to the back door, but who chose to ring at the front, and wait on the wide steps, panting, until the servant came. She was a very stout woman, with shrewd eyes and a goodnatured cast of countenance. She resem bled a nurse ; not the scientific young woman of the present day, who studies surgery, and occasionally gives her patient damp sheets, but the old fashioned, comfortable, motherly type, which liked a little gin and water, but did not require so many rules and regulations to be observed concerning herself that the invalid's whole time was taken up in wondering if the nurse found everything satisfactory.

This woman enquired for Mrs. Rayner, and on being told she had gone out said she would wait until her return. "For, my dear," she added confidentially, "I have come a long way to see her, and I can't go away without. " She was shown into a small morning-room, but on volunteering the intelligence that she had formerly lived as nurse to Miss Mabel for some years, the parlour-maid enquired if she would not be more comfortable like in the kitchen, where she could have a chat, and Cook would make her a cup of tea. The invitation was promptly accepted. Cook was gracious, and the guest made welcome with a glass of beer, which she preferred to tea, as being, she explained, better for the digestion. "And what may Miss Mabel be like now?" she enquired, " for she was as pretty a little girl as ever I saw when I left."

"If it weren't for her ma she'd be very pretty now," said Agnes, the parlour-maid. " But her ma do aggravate her to that extent that her eyes are generally red from crying." "Keeps a tight hand over her?" " A tight hand ? " echoed Cook indignantly ; " it's worse than that. Her ma is a brute." " Pretty dear ! " said Nurse. " Can't I see her now ? " "Not you. She's locked up in her own room, where she spends half her time." "Her ma always was a brute," said Nurse. " In all my days I never see a lady treat a child so. She was nearly as bad as that Mrs. Montaford, which gladly would I have gone to see hanged." "Which I would also," put in Cook. " The little girl was as good as gold with me, but her ma would whip her that savage for nothing at all, that sometimes I threatened to go for the police.

I have known her whip that child half a dozen times in one day, and lock her up in a dark closet for hours afterwards for some such thing as tumbling down and making her frock dirty. Often did I threaten to write to her pa." " And why didn't you ? " asked Agnes. " Mayhap I had my reasons. I did my best to make the child happy and keep her out of her ma's way. I noticed these tantrums always came on when the Major (the Colonel I hear he is now) wrote. She would be like a wild thing, and visit it on that poor little mite. One day I says to her, 'Look here, ma'am; I wish some day the master would treat you in the way you treat that child, and you wouldn't forget it in a hurry.' As I wondered what could be in the letters to make her so savage, I took the liberty of reading one that was left about, because I wanted to see if the Major wished her to be so cruel."

" And did he? " " Nothing of the sort. The letter wasn't much about the mistress, but there was two pages full of love and messages to the child. I went away when she was ten years old, and the last I saw of her was that she was tied to the bedpost, because she cried at my going: it was one of those days on which it seemed her ma couldn't whip her enough." " But why did the master allow it ? " "He didn't know: he was nearly always in Injia. I never saw him. When he was home she sent me away on full wages, for a holiday she said. Once she paid me for a year for doin' no thing. I could have got her imprisoned any day, and she knew it." "There must have been some reason for her disliking her own child." A quick gleam came over the nurse's face; she pursed up her lips as if she had made too many revelations.

" Ah, my dear, " she replied, " if you was to read them reports of the Society for Pre vention of Cruelty to Children, as I have done many a time — always with Miss Mabel in my mind, — you would see that there are a many brutes amongst rich and high born ladies, and people little knows what happens to those poor rich children." A sound of wheels was heard, the carriage had returned. The nurse was ushered into the morning room to await Mrs. Rayner. " You here, Mrs. Jones ! " exclaimed that lady n a tone which certainly was not that of wel come. "Yes, ma'am, I am here," responded Mrs. Jones amiably. " And how may you find yourself? " ■ You had better state your business at once. What have you come for ? " " If so be as you wish for no preambulations, ma'am, you shall not have them. I have come for money."

" You cannot have money. ■ I think, ma'am, my news is worth it. I hear as the Colonel is coming home for good. That you know well yourself. But perhaps you don't know somethin' else. Mrs. Wodehouse is comin' here to live." " What?" exclaimed Mrs. Rayner. Then recover ing herself continued, " No doubt you have your own reasons for telling me this. It is probably some other Mrs. Wodehouse." "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, it is the Mrs. Wodehouse. " " Are you sure ? " "I am quite sure. And I have something more to tell you." She stooped down and whispered something into Mrs. Rayner's ear, as if she feared the servants were listening outside ;— as indeed they may have been. Mrs. Rayner's face became deadly white ; she con sidered a moment. " Why don't you go to her and get her money? " " Because I have taken yours for years.

I am an honest woman, ma'am, and don't play into two peoples' hands." " Honest ? " repeated Mrs. Rayner with a sneer. " It strikes me as remarkably queer honesty. I think you are a very dishonest woman. I have paid you money for years. I am sick of the whole business. I loathe the day I ever saw you." " Why go on then ? " asked Mrs. Jones. " I shall get more money from Mrs. Wodehouse if I ask for it." " I must go on. I will pay you on condition you never come here again. Here is the money." " That is as may be, ma'am. I shall not trouble you if I can help it. I should like to see Miss Mabel if convenient." " It is not convenient. She is in her own room." "Ah! poor dear; being punished as usual, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones, who knew she was now mistress of the situation. "I hoped, ma'am, you had left off punishing her, bein' as she is, a grown up young lady."

" If you say another word you shall be turned out of the house, and then -" she paused. "And then you will take the first thing that comes handy and thrash Miss Mabel. No, ma'am, you won't." " I said nothing of the kind. But I will show you what comes of your unwarrantable interference." She rang the bell furiously. "Take this book up to Miss Mabel," she said to the parlour-maid, " and tell her one half is to be translated into French." "That will occupy her three days," she said as the door closed. " Now you know what you have done by your remarks." " I have seen that look on your face many a time, ma'am, and always when you thrashed Miss Mabel ; that is why I said what I did." " You talk as if I were in the habit of doing so now. I am not." " But you would if you could. You would like to do so now, ma'am."

"And I will unless you go." " I am going. Good afternoon, ma'am, and I wish you the heart of a woman, not to say a mother." For an hour after Mrs. Jones's departure Mrs. Rayner paced up and down, lost in angry medi tation. "I wish I had never seen the woman!" she exclaimed at length. "I have had a wretched life, and am no nearer gaining my end than I was at the beginning." Her hands were clenched; she was in the frame of mind in which any outward expression of anger is a relief; it was as well she feared to vent her fury on Mabel. But her fear was simply that the police might be sent for, not fear lest she should transgress the bounds of commonly humane and proper feeling. More than once she went into the hall and clutched her riding whip, then paused. " If I went to her now I think I should kill her, " she said, and threw it away.

Chapter II. An Unequal Yoke

The previous history of Colonel and Mrs. Rayner may be briefly given. When a very young man, with little save his pay, he met Miss Arbuthnot, his future wife, at a country house. She was a handsome brunette, with bright eyes and lively manners. With all the impulsiveness of an undisciplined nature, she had, on the first day she met him, fallen desperately in love with the young officer. He was a very handsome young man, tall, broad shouldered, soldierly in bearing. His features were clearly cut, his forehead square and lofty, his eyes blue and clear. The expression on his face would have been peculiarly sweet but for the intense '5 melancholy which seemed to oppress him at all times when not engaged in conversation. He would sit in secluded portions of the grounds, leaning his head on his hands, apparently absorbed in gloomy reflection.

To him, as often as possible, came Miss Arbuthnot. He never sought her, she sought him. She insisted on his taking walks with her ; sometimes after dinner instead of merely strolling about the grounds she made him go with her to a distance, returning late. She was determined he should propose to her, and she saw that the only means to attain her end was to make him compromise her. Of course people talked. Many were the jests in the smoking room, but young Rayner was so profoundly wretched that he entirely disregarded what was said. His thoughts were entirely in the past and he could not live in the present. Their hostess spoke to Miss Arbuthnot, who refused to treat the matter otherwise than as a joke. "Poor boy," she said; "I cheer him up. When he is with me I can sometimes bring a smile to his face.

Does any one know why he is so miserable ?" But this no one knew. Notwithstanding Miss Arbuthnot's laugh, her hostess, Mrs. Faber, was firm. " I will not allow you to go out so late," she said, "and if you remain out in this way I will have the doors locked that I may know when you return. " She imagined that this threat would prevent any girl who respected herself from absenting herself from the rest of the party, but it had quite the contrary effect on Miss Arbuthnot. That night she insisted on Mr. Rayner taking her for a long country walk, and it was eleven o'clock before they returned to the house, where they found the doors locked, as Mrs. Faber had promised, and it was only by ringing loudly, and exciting every one's attention that they were admitted. Then followed a scene. Mr. Rayner declared that they were sauntering about in the warm moonlight, and he had no idea of the lateness of the hour, and this statement was quite true.

He had been interested in the conversa tion, which had turned on India, and had never thought of the time. But the next morning Miss Arbuthnot sought him, and told him she had been exposed to most unpleasant remarks, which he had it in his power to shield her from. Then he saw what was expected of him, and, with a heavy heart, did what he conceived to be his duty, he asked her to be his wife. She had never stirred his pulses in the least, and he made no secret of the fact that he did not love her. But she accepted his proposal with joy; she felt sure that in time she would win his love. He next informed her he had little but his pay, and could not marry for years, but this obstacle was at once put on one side. " For, " she said, " I have six hundred a year of my own, and that will be plenty for us both."

Then, with great hesitation, he announced that it might be his duty to tell her his previous history. She was extremely anxious to hear it, but one of the finer impulses which real love causes for once actuated her, she knew he did not wish to speak, and she feared to hear some rival had been preferred to her. "No," she replied, in a most unusual access of generosity ; " you need tell me nothing. I love you; that is sufficient." His face lightened, he was really touched. He kissed her and said, " That is very good of you. Perhaps you will give me your promise to let the dead past bury its dead. From henceforth I will be true to you." She gave it immediately, and not only gave it but kept it. At the time when this story opens she was quite unaware to what he had alluded. The next day came news that he was suddenly ordered to India, and must join at once.

He offered to release her from her engagement, as he would be absent fully five years. She burst into a torrent of tears and accused him of the greatest cruelty towards her in wishing to desert her. He was much concerned. "Indeed," he said, "I did not intend to be cruel. I thought you would object to a five or six years' engagement." "Is there no alternative?" she asked pleadingly. He replied that he did not understand her. "Take me with you," she whispered. "Do you mean that you would marry me now, at once?" he said in some consternation, for it was the last thing he wished. In point of fact he did not desire a wife at all. "I would marry you this moment," she replied fervently. It was not from weakness that he complied, but from fear lest she should suffer. "God forbid," he mentally ejaculated, "that I should ever make a woman suffer as she made me."

So they were married in haste, and he had ample time to repent at leisure. Their incompatibility of temper was soon made manifest. He behaved ad mirably and honestly tried to love her, while she on her part adored him. But a fine nature cannot long consort with a coarse without one of two things happening. Either the fine nature loses its nobility and assimilates with the coarse, or else it gradually withdraws mentally, and an invisible, though very real, barrier s placed between them. In innumerable ways Mrs. Rayner's tastes and habits jarred on her husband, although he concealed this from her, and was very patient. It seemed as if he felt he had something to atone for in his conduct towards her. Another feeling also influenced him. She was expecting her confinement. When the child arrived he drew nearer to his wife, but from the first la vished love on the infant.

The desire of his heart was fulfilled, he said. Mrs. Rayner did not recover quickly: the child's birth almost cost her her life, and the doctors said it was imperatively necessary for her to return to England. She did so, although, had she studied her own personal feeling, she would have remained in India at any cost. Her husband was abroad seven years. He had been ordered to the hill country to fight against various warlike tribes, and it was impossible for him to return. He was a firstrate soldier, and gained his promotion rapidly; his knowledge of various native dialects had in the first instance brought him into notice. When he at length came back his wife met him with ardour: his absence had not cooled her love; the very anxiety to possess his may have kept it alive. Seven years is a long time.

During this in terval Major Rayner had thought deeply, he had read much, his mind had matured, his ideas been constantly elevated by the knowledge that he held his life in his hand during the constant skirmishes in which he was engaged, and that at any moment he might lose it. He returned with additional dig nity of manner, greater nobility of countenance, and Mrs. Rayner's love if possible increased. She, on the contrary, had deteriorated. Her voice was louder, her face harsher in its lines. She also had read much, and she was a very clever woman, but her reading was mostly confined to the worst class of French novels, and of a noble life in thought as well as deed she simply had no conception. Half an hour with his wife convinced Major Rayner that, alas! he did not love her. There is always a certain pathos about the one who loves, and the one who is loved: it was not wasted on him, he vowed that he would try to love her.

Then he asked for Mabel, and the little girl came in shyly, being in great fear of her mother. Before taking her in his arms he looked at her, a dreamy look of exquisite happiness came into his eyes, such a look as his wife had never seen there before; it told of something akin to worship. " Oh, Mary ! " he exclaimed, " I never thought we could have such a child ! " It was enough. Stern as had been Mrs. Rayner's rule before, from this moment she hated the little girl. But she was careful. Seeing his adoring love for the child she dissembled her feelings, and although she displayed no love whatever she refrained from active cruelty unless he were out of the house. They were now living at Tessle, a Yorkshire village. On her first return from India Mrs. Rayner went to Devonshire, but when Mabel was a few months old she had suddenly, apparently for no reason whatever, broken up her household, and travelled about for a year, settling eventually in Yorkshire.

At this time Major Rayner was left a considerable sum of money from a distant relative. He rejoiced, for he was not a man who liked being indebted to his wife. He made her a liberal allow ance, and gave her carte blanche as to her choice of a residence, which ended in her purchase of Tessle Hall. He remained at home a year, during which time Mrs. Jones was sent away. His love for his little girl was almost romantic in its devotion and tenderness, he idolised her, while she reciprocated the feeling. The affection he displayed so exasperated Mrs. Rayner that one day, forgetting her resolution, she began to punish the child with the utmost severity in her father's presence, ostensibly because she had knocked down a book. The gleam in his eyes caused her to desist. He led the little girl upstairs and then spoke.

" I will not allow this, " he said sternly. " You lose your temper and you visit it on the child. Your system is radically wrong. She obeys me instantly from love; if you ignore the divine life which is in every little child you will end by making her hate you." "Children must be punished," said Mrs. Rayner angrily. " If so, very, very seldom. The system is an entire fallacy. Why will people not learn that children have their rights as well as grown-up people ? Would you like to be punished for a pure accident ? You take a child, a little unreasoning child, and you expect perfection in conduct, in moral principle, in everything. Why should you expect it? Chil dren's feelings in many instances are far finer than those of grown-up people, their consciences more acute. Mabel is highly impressionable; I can guide her with a word."

" If I thought," she replied, "that you had one twentieth part of the love for me which you feel for that child, I would conform to your wishes in this and in everything." " The way to win my love is to be kind to her he said gravely. The scene lived in his remembrance and when he returned to India, again to be absent many years, he endeavoured in every letter to impress upon his wife the necessity of ruling by love rather than fear. His letters, as has been seen, produced a precisely opposite effect to that intended, for each one breathed so much more of love to the child than to the mother that Mrs. Rayner's feeling became almost mania, and Mrs. Jones was not far out in her surmises. It was while matters stood thus that Colonel Rayner, after a long record of distinguished service, returned at forty-eight years of age.

His chestnut hair and moustache had turned dark grey, but he retained his good looks, his elasticity, and was still youthful in figure. The old melancholy of former years had lifted, and he was prepared, if possible, to live a happy life with his wife and child.

Chapter III. Mr

DENHAM SMITH. What constitutes a happy life? Is it abundance of food and clothes, plenty of ready money, health for enjoyment of outdoor sports? If so then Colonel Rayner should have been happy. But he was not. Personally he had long known that the life was more than meat, and the body than raiment. It was impossible not to perceive the terms on which Mabel lived with her mother, and he could not shut his eyes to the fact that though towards him she was all that any father could wish, her conduct towards Mrs. Rayner was not perfect. He could not blame her. Each visit to England had additionally endeared her to him, the while it had shown him how far his wife was from treating his daughter as she should be treated. Why she secluded her so he was utterly at a loss to imagine, and often remonstrated on the point.