Life, the Interpreter

MURIEL DALLERTON knelt on the floor of a small lodging-house room by the fire. It was with evident difficulty that she could make it burn at all, for the soot kept rolling down and the chimney threatened to smoke. She had not yet accustomed herself to black hands every time she touched the shovel.

The worst of it was she expected her uncle and guardian to tea, and she had to confess to herself that the prospect was not pleasing.

She had lived with her uncle ever since she had been an orphan at six years of age, and she had been sent to an expensive boarding-school and been finished in Paris. After three triumphant London seasons, every moment of which she had lived through with the same earnest delight that was one of her most striking characteristics, she had come to the conclusion that in some way or other she was wasting her life.

She had for a whole year tried every way of doing good that was compatible with a house full of servants, a stable full of horses, and a social position. But at every turn she met with opposition—this, that, the other was “not nice”—not “the proper thing”—the horses couldn’t go out—what would the servants think—she was upsetting the whole house—people would begin to talk. She confessed herself lamentably deficient in the sense of what was the proper thing, and on her own side she felt she could no longer bear the strain of the double life.

She was needed all day at the club. She had organized games, classes, recitations, employments and entertainments for men, women and children, and all needed her personal supervision.

It was not that she was not fond of pleasure—she had immense capacities for enjoyment. She was known by all her acquaintances as that “radiant Miss Dallerton”—only to live for pleasure that was different, and little by little she found herself “dropped out.”

Society is very exacting: it demands the whole heart and constant attendance at its haunts, so that when Muriel Dallerton finally announced her intention of going to live in a model tenement next to her club, society was careful to make plain to her that reluctantly, and with all due respect for her ten thousand a year, until she returned to her senses and her west-end house, society must pass her by on the other side. Her uncle, Sir Arthur Dallerton, felt deeply what was generally termed her “extraordinary attitude”—it cast a reflection upon him. He missed her gracious household ways, the little attentions with which she had surrounded him. He had, it is true, neglected her atrociously; but up till now she had always, as he framed it, “done her duty by him.” Her living away from him was a positive slur.

Sir Arthur Dallerton was coming this afternoon to shake her resolution, and he had no doubt whatever of his success.

Muriel tussled with the fire, which finally consented to burn, then she rose to her feet, brought out some tea-things, and began to toast a muffin.

A bunch of daffodils in a cracked vase did much to improve the appearance of the room; a touch here, and there finished it; and she had scarcely taken off her outdoor things and washed her hands (very unused to the work they had been put to) when a dismal slavey announced, “A genelman to see yer, miss,” and backed almost on to the gentleman in question, who with an exclamation of disgust pushed past her into the room.

“My dear Muriel,” he said, “this is disgraceful!” He paused as she ran forward to meet and relieve him of his hat and umbrella. She looked up at him, her face beaming with smiles.

“Dear,” she laughed, “did the blackbeetle quite crush you? How horrid! But now you’ll sit down here and have some tea. You needn’t insult that chair by doubting it. It will bear anything I know—I saw the landlady sit on it, and nothing happened!”

Her uncle sat down gingerly. “Were those people,” he said coldly, “down in what I can only call a yard—a yard, Muriel!—the people you imagine you have a mission amongst?”

Muriel poured out the tea. “They look as if they needed it, don’t they, dear?” she said, handing him a cup. “There, you’ve got a whole handle, and only two chips round the rim! Yes, those were some of my people. I hope they weren’t in your way?”

“They are extremely in my way, Muriel—extremely; I may say I am greatly inconvenienced by them. I suppose you realize that I am alone in the world; and yet you seem to imagine that your duty is to be among these unpleasant characters in filthy slums instead of at home looking after my comfort.”

Muriel smiled a little to herself as she thought of the array of servants the great house held, of the friends and cronies at the club, where he spent the greater part of his time. “His comfort!”—surely there were enough people in the world already looking after that.

“Uncle Arthur,” she said, “we’ve talked all this out before, haven’t we? We don’t see it quite in the same light. I am very sorry you are not comfortable. If the servants——”

“Muriel,” he interrupted in a raised voice, “how dare you mention servants to me! Do you imagine that when I refer to comfort I mean personal attendance? You have never had any heart! Mine has always been an essentially affectionate nature. It is domestic companionship that I desire; and now that you are of an age to be of some comfort to me, you fly off to—Heaven knows where!—and throw me back on the servants!”

Muriel sighed gently and laid her hand on his. “Dear uncle, you have always been so good to me. But you see you weren’t always at home, and a girl nowadays isn’t satisfied simply in being domestic.”

“I should scarcely have imagined you, my niece Muriel, accusing me of neglect! You invariably lose your temper upon these subjects, which proves that you feel yourself to be in the wrong. You know perfectly well that you can have any woman you want to live with you as lady companion, but you’re so independent and obstinate——”

“That no one would live with me if you asked them,” she finished merrily. “Ah!—but please don’t talk about this any more,” she pleaded as he strove to begin again. “We shall never agree! I must have my work to do. I cannot be happy without it, and I cannot do it at home. But I only ask for nine months of it. It is April now, and in July you shall have me back for three whole months, and do just what you like, dear. Isn’t that a splendid bargain?”

The tea was very nice, and the buttered muffins especially were done to a turn.

Sir Arthur Dallerton crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (forgetful of its former occupant). “My dear,” he said mildly, “what will people say? Have you ever thought of that?”

“Yes, dear uncle,” said Muriel, smiling; “I have thought of it, and I have come to the conclusion that I had better not think about it any more. Won’t you have some more muffin?”

Sir Arthur Dallerton graciously accepted another piece. It did not occur to him that Muriel had eaten nothing—those sort of things never did occur to him. If it had done so he would have put it down to hysteria—the one great refuge for the selfish.

“Mrs. le Mentier,” he pursued, “who is a very sensible woman, told me what people were saying, and I think you ought to know of it too.”

Muriel rose and looked out of the window. It was still raining heavily.

“Well?” she said a little wearily.

“They say this is a mere whim of yours to bring Jack Hurstly to book.”

The girl by the window stood quite still. She did not see the children in the yard below playing cheerfully in the gutter; she did not even notice one of her most hopeful cases reel across the court in a condition which would have filled her soul with pity and disgust two minutes before. Her uncle thought her cold and indifferent, or possibly sullen.

“Yes!” he said bitterly, “that is the sort of thing, Muriel, that your conduct forces me to put up with.” Muriel faced him suddenly.