Celibates | Page 4

paused,
astonished at the possibility. But why not she as well as the other women whom she had
met at Mrs. Fargus'? She had met many artists--ladies who had studios--at Mrs. Fargus'.
She had been to their studios and had admired their independence. They had spoken of
study in Paris, and of a village near Paris where they went to paint landscape. Each had a
room at the inn; they met at meal times, and spent the day in the woods and fields.
Mildred had once been fond of drawing, and in the heat of the summer night she
wondered if she could do anything worth doing. She knew that she would like to try. She
would do anything sooner than settle down with Alfred. Marriage and children were not
the only possibilities in woman's life. The girls she knew thought so, but the girls Mrs.
Fargus knew didn't think so.
And rolling over in her hot bed she lamented that there was no escape for a girl from
marriage. If so, why not Alfred Stanby--he as well as another? But no, she could not
settle down to keep house for Alfred for the rest of her life. She asked herself again why
she should marry at all--what it was that compelled all girls, rich or poor, it was all the
same, to marry and keep house for their husbands. She remembered that she had five
hundred a year, and that she would have four thousand a year if her brother died--the
distillery was worth that. But money made no difference. There was something in life
which forced all girls into marriage, with their will or against their will. Marriage,
marriage, always marriage--always the eternal question of sex, as if there was nothing
else in the world. But there was much else in life. There was a nobler purpose in life than
keeping house for a man. Of that she felt quite sure, and she hoped that she would find a
vocation. She must first educate herself, so far she knew, and that was all that was at
present necessary for her to know.
'But how hot it is; I shan't be able to go out in the cart to-morrow. ... I wish everything
would change, especially the weather. I want to go away. I hate living in a house without
another woman. I wish Harold would let me have a companion--a nice elderly lady, but
not too elderly--a woman about forty, who could talk; some one like Mrs. Fargus. When
mother was alive it was different. She has been dead now three years. How long it
seems! ... Poor mother! I wish she were here. I scarcely knew much of father; he went to
the city every morning, just as Harold does, by that dreadful ten minutes past nine. It
seems to me that I have never heard of anything all my life but that horrible ten minutes
past nine and the half-past six from London Bridge. I don't hear so much about the
half-past six, but the ten minutes past nine is never out of my head. Father is dead seven
years, mother is dead three, and since her death I have kept house for Harold.'
Then as sleep pressed upon her eyelids Mildred's thoughts grew disjointed. ... 'Alfred, I
have thought it all over. I cannot marry you. ... Do not reproach me,' she said between
dreaming and waking; and as the purple space of sky between the trees grew paler, she
heard the first birds. Then dream and reality grew undistinguishable, and listening to the

carolling of a thrush she saw a melancholy face, and then a dejected figure pass into the
twilight.

II.
'What a fright I am looking! I did not get to sleep till after two o'clock; the heat was
something dreadful, and to-day will be hotter still. One doesn't know what to wear.'
She settled the ribbons in her white dress, and looked once again in the glass to see if the
soft, almost fluffy, hair, which the least breath disturbed was disarranged. She smoothed
it with her short white hand. There was a wistful expression in her brown eyes, a little
pathetic won't-you-care-for-me expression which she cultivated, knowing its charm in her
somewhat short, rather broad face, which ended in a pointed chin: the nose was slightly
tip-tilted, her teeth were white, but too large. Her figure was delicate, and with quick
steps she hurried along the passages and down the high staircase. Harold was standing
before the fireplace, reading the Times, when she entered.
'You are rather late, Mildred. I am afraid I shall lose the ten minutes past nine.'
'My dear Harold, you have gone up to town for the last ten years by that train, and every
day