Karel Čapek - Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7

” Think you, you who read these words, that hundreds of women now unhappily married would ever have contracted that terrible tie had they been aware of what they were doing, or had they had the smallest hope of advancement and prospects of success in life without? Certainly not. Marriage is contracted in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred by women desirous of making for themselves a home, and because in no other quarter can they adopt agreeable and pleasant professions and occupations like men. “Were it possible, they would either not have married, or at least have waited until, with the knowledge of man which they should possess—but which, unfortunately, nowadays comes to them only with marriage—they could select for themselves, with their eyes open, a partner suited to them in every respect. As it is, what does one see? Women, especially in the higher grades of society, marry only to escape in many instances the prim restraints of home. Others marry for money and position, because they know that the portals, through which men may pass to try for these, are closed to them. The cruel laws by which men have shut women out from every hope of winning name and fame, are responsible for hundreds of wretched marriages, which have seared the world with their griefs. If, in the narrow sphere within which she moves, a woman errs, let not the man blame her, but rather look to the abolition of unnatural laws which have brought about her degradation.”

Mr. Trevor sits very still in his chair. A flood of thoughts have come to fill his brain. They keep him very busy and occupied. The revelations thrown upon woman’s position by the straightforward, truth-breathing article of Hector D’Estrange, have taken him by storm, and have completely revolutionised his ideas. He has hitherto been so accustomed to look upon and treat women with the self-satisfied, conscious feeling of superiority assumed by men, that such ideas as these before him are startlingly strange and extraordinary. His position with Vivi, and hers in regard to him, presents itself now to his mind in a totally different light to that in which he has hitherto been accustomed to regard it. He remembers how he first met her hardly a year ago, a beautiful, lively, healthy girl, whose scheming mother, knowing no better, had thrust her into the busy mart, willing to sell her to the highest bidder. He remembers how passionately he fell in love with this girl, how he never paused to ask himself if his love were returned. He recalls full well the bitter look that had crossed her face when he had asked her to be his wife, and the cold, matter-of-fact way in which she had accepted him. then his thoughts fly back to his wedding day, and a shudder runs through Launcelot Trevor as he recalls the utter absence of love on her part towards him. And, remembering all this, he cannot but feel that Hector D’Estrange is right. If, in the narrow sphere within which poor Vivi had moved, she had, according to the notions of propriety laid down by Mrs. Grundy, erred, Launcelot Trevor feels that the blame must rest not so much with her, as with the cruel laws that had left that beautiful girl no other option but to sell herself for gold; for be it remembered, she had been educated up to no higher level, been imbued with no better aim. She had been taught that the only opening for a girl is to get herself well married, that while men could go forth into the world with a score of professions to choose from, she must for ever regard herself as shut out from that world of enterprise, daring, and fame, created, so says man, solely for himself.

He sits on in his chair, his thoughts still busy with the new problem that has presented itself so startlingly to his mind. The luncheon hour is far past, much of the afternoon has slipped away, still Launcelot Trevor remains where he had seated himself many hours before. Men keep coming in and out; friends and acquaintances nod to him as they pass. He scarcely heeds them, or pays attention to what they say. His mind is absorbed by the truths which he has faced for the first time.

Suddenly he starts; the clock is striking seven. He remembers that at eight o’clock he and Vivi are engaged to dine out. He jumps up, bids the hall porter hail a hansom, and in a few minutes is being driven towards Piccadilly.

“Has Mrs. Trevor returned yet?” he again inquires of the servant who opens the door to him.

“Yes, sir, she is in the drawing-room with Captain Kilmarnock.”

He walks slowly upstairs. All is very silent in the room mentioned. He stands on the threshold, hardly daring to open the door. He can hear a rustling inside, and, yes, unmistakably the sound of a kiss. He coughs audibly as he lays his hand on the door’s handle. He can hear a scuffling of feet, and on entering perceives Vivi sitting bolt upright on the sofa, and Captain Kilmarnock apparently warming his hands over the fireplace. Unfortunately there is no fire!

She looks at him as he comes in, and for a moment their eyes meet. A bright flush rises to Vivi’s cheeks. She expects to see him furious, as he had been that morning, and is surprised, nay, even awed by the sad expression on his face.

“Vivi,” he says very quietly, “I think we ought to be dressing for dinner. Good-evening to you, Kilmarnock. Are you to be at Ferdey’s to-night?”

“No, Trevor,” stammers the captain, visibly uncomfortable. “I have another engagement.”

“Oh, well, shall see you again, I suppose, soon? Good-night, old chap. Must go and dress. Vivi dear, don’t be late.”

He goes out as he speaks, and closes the door behind him. Hector D’Estrange’s words are still next his heart.

“Poor Vivi,” he mutters to himself. “It is not her fault. Poor Vivi.”

He is hardly out of the room, when she looks up at Captain Kilmarnock. The scared expression is still in her face.

“Kil,” she whispers, “that was a near squeak. You had better be off, old man. Didn’t hear the front door bell ring, did you?”

“No,” he answers in a rather sulky tone. “Hang him! he’s always where he’s not wanted. But you are right. I’d better be off. To-morrow at three. Don’t forget.”

“All right,” she answers, with a smile.

ALWAYS busy and astir, the little town of Melton Mowbray presents a more than usually busy aspect on the morning of the 15th April, 1894. It is early yet, nevertheless the streets ring with the sound of trotting and cantering hacks, as well as the more sober paces of the strings of horses returning from exercise to their respective stables.

People are coming and going at a rapid rate. They nearly all seem to know each other, judging by the little nods, and “good-mornings,” and suchlike familiar greetings with which friends meet, and in which these afore-mentioned personages indulge, as they hurry by each other.

A party of horsemen and horsewomen are just riding out of the stables belonging to The Limes. They are laughing and talking merrily. We have seen two of the women before, and their names are Mrs. de Lacy Trevor and Lady Manderton. Close in attendance upon them are two smart good-looking men, whom we must introduce to the reader as Lord Charles Dartrey and the Earl of Westray. The former appears to be entirely taken up with the first-named lady, the latter—already introduced to the reader in a former as Lord Altai—with the last-named one.

There is yet another pair in that cheery group that we must particularly notice. They are a man and woman, both young, both good-looking, and both unmistakably at home in the saddle. If one can judge from appearances, the woman must be about twenty-two years of age, the man perhaps five or six years her senior. Both are mounted on grey horses, and both look every inch what they are, splendid equestrians. The woman is well known in Society’s world, as also in the tiny hunting world of Melton. She is Lady Flora Desmond, and the man is handsome Captain “Jack” Delamere.