A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada. Jones Susan Morrow
of the table; she considered Launa too young. She was disappointed when she found the table was round.
Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were the other guests. Mr. Herbert was an ugly, short man, with a square face, and a stubbly black moustache. He was a journalist – besides which he was clever. Shortly he was going to Canada to write articles for some papers on the country and its resources.
“You are going to write to me, too,” said Mrs. Phillips.
“Yes,” he replied, with a glance, full of – what?
Launa saw it; here was a man and a woman who clearly were of moment to each other. Launa was so absolutely ignorant of men; she knew only one man, and she tried to forget him. She had believed in them all as a class, and in their chivalrous respect for women – indefinite women – and in their everlasting love for one particular woman at last, but her belief was tottering.
That all men were brave she believed, too, it was part, an essential part, of her idea of a man, as all women are lovely and good. Of course she knew women existed with protruding teeth, who have no attraction, but men do not love them. Mrs. Carden she classed among them.
Captain Carden talked to her with assiduity. He told her he found London dull.
“I hate the people; they are so difficult to know. I have called over and over again on the Huntingdons. You know who he is? Lord Huntingdon in the War Office. And I go often to the club for billiards, but no one is friendly, and society is very difficult to get into.”
“But do you not go in for something? Don’t you ride, or row, or play golf? I think all men should care for things of that sort, even for making love.”
“I never make love; that means marriage, and I have no money.”
“Do you ride?” she asked, feeling perfectly indifferent as to his reply. “All soldiers do.”
This conversation was so profoundly insipid.
“Sometimes; but I hate it. I am always afraid of falling off. I go in for it because the regiment would not think much of me if I didn’t. But I hope I have not bored you,” with a sudden change of tone. “We are cousins, you know, and it is so funny how intimate I can be with you; there are so few women I like, or with whom I can be confidential.”
Launa ate an almond with deliberation.
“Perhaps some day you will come for a drive with me. I might hire a safe horse.”
“Oh, no, thank you. Please do not trouble, I do not like safe horses.”
Mr. Archer turned to Captain Carden and asked about Malta, and Launa watched Mrs. Phillips, who was talking very little, while Mr. Herbert’s conversation was incessant. His air was persuasive, his eyes eager, ardent, full of desire.
At ten the Cardens departed. Charley Carden had time to assure Launa again that she was the only woman with whom he could be confidential. Mrs. Phillips was to stay the night. Launa and she had bedrooms adjoining, with a door of communication. They both put on dressing-gowns, and Lily Phillips went into Launa’s room.
“You are not sleepy, are you? Shall we talk?”
“Sit here,” said Launa, “in this comfortable chair.”
There was a small fire.
“I am always cold,” said Launa. “I love a fire.”
“What do you think of Mr. Herbert?”
“I think him clever, and he evidently likes you.”
“Yes, he is clever. But tell me, Launa, are you modern?”
“In what way?”
“Would you ask a man who loved you if he had a past? Would you object to it if he had?”
“If a past were a present I would object. Can’t men be without past? Is there always a woman they have loved first?”
She seemed to hear the wailing of a child and the rustling of the trees, and to feel the fresh breeze. She shuddered. Mrs. Phillips observed the shudder and the look.
“I do not object. Men are different; they are coarse. They like kissing – indiscriminate kissing.”
Launa laughed, and said, “Go on.”
“If I love a man I shall not care what he has – past, present, anything, if he loves me. I would like one man to really love me.”
“You have been married,” suggested Launa.
“But not loved. My husband was nice; we never quarrelled, but we never made it up. Nice men do not love women; they ask us to marry them, to be mothers to their children. Devils love us and often leave us.”
For some time there was silence.
“You like Mr. Herbert?” again asked Mrs. Phillips.
“He wants to marry you,” said Launa.
“He thinks he does. I am afraid of marriage. I am four-and-twenty and I feel fifty; he is thirty and seems twenty.”
“If I were a man,” said Launa, “I would love you. You are not merely beautiful; you are more – not only attractive, you will never grow old.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Phillips; “that is a compliment.”
Mrs. Phillips was small and slight; her hair was a very dark brown, her lips were red, her eyes large and dark blue. Her mouth was the most beautiful part of her face. Her fascination was great; men loved her, went mad over her, and loved her still. She was not good-tempered; a man would never have chosen her for his friend merely. She was variable; not the least of her attraction was that men never could tell how she would treat them. Some women lose their power by their variableness; Mrs. Phillips gained hers. She was cold, yet she could have been passionately fond; but she worshipped self-control, and considered a man ceases to care for a woman when once he is sure of her.
“I shall marry him,” she said. “I think I shall. He is not poor, but I shall never live with him.”
“Why not? What will you do?”
“Though he cares for me, he will grow tired of marriage, and so shall I. The accessibility of a wife is so dull. I shall live in my own flat, and he can keep his rooms. Our marriage notice in all the papers will be followed by a week’s honeymoon, and then he can go back to his work, and I can play. He must love me better for not being sure of me at breakfast, weary of me at dinner, and asleep in the drawing-room at night. All the attraction of the – ” she paused – “of the others will be mine. I shall be his wife. We can entertain, and he will be sure of me.”
“Do men always grow tired of us?” asked Launa, “even if or when they love us?”
“Not always tired, but secure. If they were merely tired, they would let us alone. They cease to desire to please us; we belong to them. Ah, my dear, love! do men love us? Yes, they love us, but do they love one woman?”
Launa’s clock struck twelve.
“I must go to bed,” said Lily Phillips. “I shall not kiss you. Women should never kiss each other. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” repeated Launa.
“That Carden man will want to marry you, Launa. Beware of them both. He is a worm, and has awful legs!”
A few nights after this, Mrs. Phillips took Launa to a ball given by some bachelors – eligible, delightful young men – whose reputation for wickedness was wholly obliterated by their fortunes or the want thereof.
Captain Carden was there. He had procured his invitation with great difficulty. The mother of one bachelor had cause for gratitude towards him. Her son was in his regiment, and when his reputation promised to become inconveniently large, Captain Carden for once used his wits, saved him from the consequences thereof, and the family felt they owed Captain Carden something. Mrs. Carden rejoiced. She thanked Providence for having delivered the sons of the enemy into her hand, and piously glanced at the ceiling (where a brass chandelier hung, symbolic of the worship of light, also brass) when Charlie