The Master Craftsman

Then and there was the emancipation of Isabel begun. It was effected, you have seen, by making her physically strong and well, by giving her courage, by providing her with something to think about, and by relieving the monotony of her life.

‘You’ve done wonders for the girl,’ said the Captain one day. ‘Wonders, you have. I don’t hardly know her, she’s so changed. Why, she sings now, and she plays her music half the day and every day. She that used to be such a shy and timid thing, afraid of her own voice. Perhaps, Sir George’—he would never abandon the title; it gave him a sense of self-importance to be talking with a Baronet—‘perhaps you don’t notice these trifles, but you must have seen the change that’s come over the puddings.’

‘No—really? Over the puddings?’

‘There’s a lightness about them, more jam, since the girl got brighter. Ah! It’s quite natural. When the soul is heavy, the pudding comes out heavy too. There can’t be the real feeling about the jam. And the teas are quite remarkable compared with what they were. There’s a spiciness about the cake now.’

‘Well, Captain, do you think that Robert has noticed any change?’

‘No. He never notices anything. There’s a change in him—and that’s all he thinks about. What in thunder is the matter with the man to be engaged to a beautiful girl, and a nice girl too—isn’t she, now?’

‘A nice girl indeed!’

‘And never to take the least notice, no more than if she wasn’t there. I say, Sir George, it isn’t natural. If he doesn’t want her, why doesn’t he tell her so? If he does, why not put it to her in the usual way?’

‘Don’t you think, Captain, that a word from you——’

‘No, sir. He won’t listen to one word, nor a thousand words, from anybody.’

‘Consider, your daughter’s happiness is at stake. Can any girl like to go on year after year engaged to a man who treats her with absolute neglect and icy coldness? Is it fair to keep a girl going on in this way year after year? Could he not, at least, take back his promise and set her free? You are her father; it is for you to interfere.’

The Captain froze instantly. ‘Perhaps, Sir George, under ordinary circumstances that might be so. But you forget that we have eaten Robert’s bread and slept under his roof for five years, and you forget, besides, that he is the most masterful man in the world, and he means to have his own way.’

‘Still, to marry a girl against her will——’

‘How do I know that it is against her will? To be sure, she’s a little afraid of him—many women are afraid of the man before they marry. Afterwards it’s different, and let me tell you, sir, that most women like a man to be masterful. They get their own way fast enough; but they like him to be masterful.’

‘Perhaps; but this neglect of Robert’s——’

‘Never mind that. He’ll make it up when they do marry. It’s all there, only bottled up. These bottles do pour it out when the time comes—in the most surprising manner. You’ll see what an appreciative husband he’ll make some day. Let things be, Sir George. You’ve brought her health and roses; Robert, who will be grateful when he notices it, will do all the rest. I dare say she frets and peaks a bit for want of the kissing and the fondling that all girls naturally expect. Let her have a little patience, I say. And don’t let’s disturb things when they are comfortable, especially the puddings.’

We spoke no more of love. We continued to go about together with free and unrestrained discourse. As the evenings began to close in, we ceased the long journeys to villages and village churches, and took picture-galleries and concerts instead on Saturday afternoon. Or I remained in the evening at the house, while Isabel played and sang to me; she played much better already, and she sang with untrained sweetness. One evening, when the pianoforte was loaded with new music and new songs, and the books she was reading, she laid her hands upon them all.

‘You have given me everything,’ she said. ‘But these things are only alleviations. The future is always before me—dark and horrible. Oh! I pray that it may be postponed so long as to become impossible. I shall grow old and ugly, and then I hope he will take back his promise.’

‘Unless,’ I said, ‘he can be induced to take it back before.’

Then an incident took place which disquieted me very much indeed—a very dangerous incident. It was this:

Robert was in his study after dinner forging an oration. Isabel was in the parlour practising. On the table was a bundle of papers and certain blue-books. He took up the books and began to turn over the leaves, marking passages. He wanted these passages copied, to be used in his speech. He took paper and pen and began to copy. Then Isabel’s playing reminded him of her. He got up, opened the door and called her.

She came obediently. That afternoon she was dressed in some light blue summer stuff with a ribbon and a flower, because she now loved a little touch of finery. The soft cheek, the depths of her eyes, her light, feathery hair, her ethereal look, might have moved the heart of St. Anthony. So far they had produced no impression at all upon her lover.

He nodded when she appeared—nodded pleasantly; he had a very fine speech nearly ready; he had learned it by heart; it was certain to carry the people away; he only wanted these extracts copied.

‘Take these blue-books,’ he said, with the old tone of command. ‘You will find the pages marked with a red pencil. Copy out all the passages marked, and let me have them by to-morrow morning.’

‘I am no longer your clerk, Robert.’

‘What?’

‘I say that I am no longer your clerk. You released me three months ago. Had I continued, I believe I should have been dead by this time. I will not copy passages for you.’

‘Isabel!’ He was amazed.

‘Let us understand each other. I am your housekeeper. I will do for the house anything and everything. I am not your clerk or your private secretary or your accountant. You must get someone else to do that work for you.’

‘Isabel!’

‘I am grateful to you for taking us in and keeping us all these years. If you think I ought to do more for my father’s maintenance and my own, I will give up and try for another place.’

‘You are a fool, Isabel!’ he said roughly.

‘Very likely. Is it polite to tell me so? You have learned a great deal about the world of late; Robert—do you think it is polite to call the girl you are engaged to—a fool?’

‘No, no, no! of course I didn’t mean that. But—Isabel—what in the world has come over you?’

He actually saw the change at last, or something of the change; not all of it, otherwise the subsequent history would be different. It was the very first time that the girl had ever refused work, or objected, or complained. For four or five months there had been slowly going on under his eyes the transformation of which you have heard; but because it was so slow and gradual, and because he was always completely absorbed in himself, and because he had never thought it necessary to consider the appearance of the girl at all, having still in him so much of the working man as not to desire beauty in his wife, and not to think about it—he had observed nothing. Now, however, when the word of resistance and refusal opened his eyes, he was amazed to see standing before him, in the place of the mild, meek maiden, who humbly took whatever he gave, and humbly executed whatever he commanded, always with downcast eyes and hanging head, a lovely, airy, fairy creature, too dainty altogether for such a man as himself, a beautiful, bright, sunny girl, a head held upright, and steady eyes that met his own without the least fear or show of humility.

‘Isabel!’ he repeated, ‘what in the name of wonder has come over you?’

‘I don’t know. You have been thinking about your own affairs, I suppose. But oh—it is nothing.’ She turned to leave him, being, in fact, frightened at the admiration expressed in his eyes for the first time—it was quite a new expression, and it terrified her horribly.

‘No, no; don’t go, Isabel.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You are looking so wonderfully well, and—and pretty this afternoon.’

She began to tremble. Robert to say things complimentary!

‘There is nothing more to say, is there?’

He leaned his chin in his left hand, and replied slowly: ‘I remember now. George talked to me about you, Isabel, when he first came. He said you were overworked. I don’t always remember, perhaps, that you are only a girl. I may have given you too much to do.’

‘I am only housekeeper now.’

‘Very well, then. I don’t mean to be unkind, you see. But, of course, I can’t be always thinking about your health and your whims, can I?’

‘Of course not.’

‘George said you wanted fresh air, and a change and exercise, and all kinds of fiddle-faddle stuff, and to see how other girls carry on—so as to take your proper place when I have advanced myself. Well, I told him I wished he would take care of you, and take you about a bit, seeing that I couldn’t afford the time myself. Has he taken you about?’

‘Yes; all the summer. He has been most kind and generous.’

‘George is that sort of man, I believe, ready to waste any amount of time in dangling after a girl. Well, Isabel, as I could not dangle after you, I am very much obliged to him. And I must say that the change is wonderful. You look ever so much better. Your face, which used to be too pale, is full of colour, and your eyes are brighter, and—why, Isabel, give me your hands.’

He held out both hands, but Isabel made no response. And there was an unexpected look in his eyes which frightened her. He got up, not hastily, not like a passionate pilgrim, but slowly, and with the dignity of possession and authority. Isabel trembled as she realized this phenomenon. Between herself and the door stood Robert. She could not run away. She thought of crying for help—her father was in his own room—but a girl can hardly call out for protection against the threatened kiss of her engaged lover. And perhaps he didn’t mean it, after all. Yet his eyes looked hungry.

In the corner beside the fireplace stood one of those revolving bookcases filled with books; a heavy thing which turns round when it is pushed with zeal and vigour. Isabel retreated behind this bookcase. ‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Do not touch me!’

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘Come out of that corner, Isabel. Why, you are not a baby; and you are my girl. Come out quietly, and don’t be silly.’

‘No—you promised—you said that there should be no—no——’

‘Oh yes: stuff and nonsense! I said so, I dare say. I couldn’t interrupt work and distract my thoughts with fondling and kissing. Not to be expected. Besides, that was a year ago and more, and you were not the girl then that you are now. Come, Isabel, don’t be shy.’

‘No, no, I won’t have it! I couldn’t bear it. Oh, horrible! Let me go!’ She gave the bookcase a vigorous shove, and it revolved ponderously with its weight of a hundred books. Robert fell back.

It is not pleasant for one’s sweetheart to speak of a threatened kiss as horrible. His face grew dark.

‘You are going to marry me, Isabel, I believe?’

‘Not yet—not for a long time yet; not till you are an Archbishop of Canterbury, or something. And until we do marry, Robert, I will take you at your word. There shall be no fondling, as you call it.’

‘When you marry me you will have to obey me. There can only be one master in one house.’

‘I am not your wife yet, remember. I am not at your orders except as your housekeeper. Pray do not imagine that you have any right to command a woman because she has promised to be your wife. After I am your wife—if ever I am——’

He wavered. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I cannot command your obedience so long as you are not my wife. But come out from that retreat, and sit down and let us talk. I will not attempt to command you in anything. Perhaps we need not wait so long as first we thought. Perhaps—as soon as I am in the House——’

‘No,’ she replied; ‘you must promise to let me go, or I will stay behind this bookcase all night.’

‘You can go then, Isabel,’ he replied, flinging himself into his chair; ‘I will not stop you.’

She passed out without a word. But she was shaken; she went to her own room and sat down to think. Was Robert, too, changing? Was his ancient indifference turning into admiration? and though her experience of the manly heart was small, she felt by instinct that admiration might at any moment leap into passion, and passion into a demand for the fulfilment of her promise. ‘Oh,’ she groaned and cried, ‘I cannot marry him—I cannot—I cannot—I would rather die!’

But she told no one, not even her physician. And that evening the furrow reappeared on her brow, and the cloud on her face, and Robert, coming in to tea, saw again the maiden meek and mild, and wondered what had become of the princess, and why he had experienced, if only for a brief moment, that novel and singular feeling of admiration.

‘George,’ said Robert after tea, when we were alone, ‘women are queer skittish creatures. There’s Isabel, now.’

‘Yes; there is Isabel.’

‘Formerly I had only to lift my little finger and she ran. She’d do just as much work as I pleased to order. To-day she flatly refused to do anything.’

‘Quite right.’

‘And when I told her—a man may surely say as much to his own girl—that she was changed and improved—which she certainly is, thanks to you—she wanted to run away.’

‘Did she?’

‘And when I offered to kiss her—a man may surely kiss his own girl—she shrieked out and ran behind the revolving bookcase.’

‘Oh, did she? But, I say, Robert, hadn’t you promised that there was to be no kissing, and fondling, and stuff?’

‘Well—well—I had, I dare say. But who wanted to kiss the girl a year ago? It’s different now. She’s become an amazingly pretty girl. If it wasn’t for this election business I would—I certainly would——’

‘Better not,’ I said solemnly. ‘Much better not—yet.’

And now you understand how disquieting this incident was.