Moth and Rust | Page 7

under the roof of a brother who was not only disreputable in the
imagination of Mrs. Trefusis, but, as I hate half measures, was so in
reality.
If Janet had been an introspective person, if she had ever asked herself
whence she came and whither she was going, if the cruelty of life and
nature had ever forced themselves upon her notice, if the apparent
incompleteness of this pretty world had ever haunted her, I think she
must have been a very unhappy woman. Her surroundings were vulgar,
coarse, without a redeeming gleam of culture, even in its crudest forms,
without a spark of refined affection. Nevertheless her life grew up
white and clean in it, as a hyacinth will build its fragrant bell-tower in
the window of a tavern, in a stale atmosphere of smoke and beer and
alcohol. Janet was self-contained as a hyacinth. She unfolded from
within. She asked no questions of life. That she had had a happy,
contented existence was obvious; an existence spent much in the open
air, in which tranquil, practical duties well within her reach had been all
that had been required of her. Her brother Fred, several years older than
herself, had one redeeming point. He was fond of her and proud of her.
He did not understand her, but she was what he called "a good sort."
Janet was one of those blessed women--whose number seems to
diminish, while that of her highly strung sisters painfully
increases--who make no large demand on life, or on their
fellow-creatures. She took both as they came. Her uprightness and
integrity were her own, as was the simple religion which she followed
blindfold. She expected little of others, and exacted nothing. She had,
of course, had lovers in plenty. She wished to be married and to have
children--many children. In her quiet, ruminating mind she had names
ready for a family of ten. But until George came she had always said
"No." When pressed by her brother as to why some particularly eligible
parti-such as Mr. Gorst--the successful trainer--had been refused, she
could never put forward any adequate reason, and would say at last that
she was very happy as she was.

Then George came, a different kind of man from any she had known, at
least different from any in his class who had offered marriage. He
represented to her all that was absent from her own
surroundings--refinement, culture. I don't know what Janet can have
meant by culture, but years later, when she had picked up words like
"culture" and "development," and scattered them across her
conversation, she told me he had represented all these glories to her.
And lie was a little straighter than the business men she associated with,
a good deal straighter than her brother. Perhaps, after all, that was the
first attraction he had for her. Janet was straight herself. She fell in love
with George.
"L'amour est une source naive." It was a very naive spring in Janet's
heart, though it welled up from a considerable depth; a spring not even
to be poisoned on by her brother's outrageous delight at the engagement,
or his congratulations on the wisdom of her previous steadfast refusal
of the eligible Mr. Gorst.
"This beats all," he said; "I never thought you would pull it off, Janet. I
thought he was too big a fish to land. And to think you will queen it at
Easthope Park."
Janet was not in the least perturbed by her brother's remarks. She was
accustomed to them. He always talked like that. She vaguely supposed
she should some day "queen it" at Easthope. The expression did not
offend her. The reflection in her mind was: "George must love me very
much to have chosen me, when all the most splendid ladies in the land
would be glad to have him."
And now, as she walked on this Sunday afternoon in the long, quiet
gardens of Easthope, she felt her cup was full. She looked at her
affianced George with shy adoration from under the brim of her violent
new hat, and made soft answers to him when he spoke.
George was not a great talker. He trusted mainly to an occasional
ejaculation, his meaning aided by pointing with a stick.
A covey of partridges ran with one consent across the smooth lawn at a

little distance.
"Jolly little beggars," said George, with explanatory stick.
She liked the flowers best, but he did not, so he took her down to the
pool below the rose-garden, where the eager brook ran through a
grating, making a little water prison in which solemn, portly personages
might be seen moving.
"See 'em?" said George, pointing as usual.
"Yes," said Janet.
"That's a three-pounder."
"Yes."
That was all the stream said to