A DILEMMA.
South Molton-street had apparently a strong attraction for Mr. James
Swain. Perhaps he found it a profitable and productive situation in
point of odd and early jobs, perhaps he had some less professional
reason for frequenting it. However that may be, the fact existed that
no day passed without his tousled head and imperfectly clad form
making their appearance in the street two or three times between dawn
and dark. He would hang about the precincts of the house in which
Routh and Harriet lodged, and evinced an extraordinary preference for
the archway in the vicinity as a dining-room. He might have been seen
at irregular hours devouring saveloys, polonies, or, when jobs odd or
even were not plentiful, hunches of bread and cheese, within the
shelter of the archway, in the most unsophisticated attitudes, and
with great apparent enjoyment. Mr. James Swain's face was not free
from the underlying expression of care and anxiety which is always to
be found by the careful observer in the countenance of the London
street-boy, but it had more than the usual complement of sauciness,
cunning, readiness, and impudence.
The boy had quite an attraction for Mrs. Routh, who would smile at him
when she passed him in the street, nod pleasantly to him occasionally
from her window, when his business or pleasure led him to lounge past
the house before she had left her bedroom of a morning, and who
frequently sent him of errands, for the doing of which she rewarded
him with a liberality which appeared to him astounding munificence.
Mr. James Swain was of a temperament to feel kindness, neglected
street-boy though he was, and he had been wonderfully impressed by the
womanly compassion which had spoken to him in Harriet's gentle tones
on the morning of their first meeting, and had looked out of all the
trouble and foreboding in her blue eyes. His interest in the Routh
household, however, antedated that event, and received not only an
additional access, but a fresh colouring from it, and an acute
observer, supposing one to exist for whom so mean a matter as the
mental condition of a street-boy, very vulgar indeed, and without a
particle of sentimental interest about him, should possess any
attraction, would have discerned that a struggle of some sort was
going on in the mind of the frequenter of South Molton-street, and
seeker of odd jobs.
Routh, also, was not without interest for Jim Swain. Perhaps he
watched him even more closely than he watched Harriet, but if he
did, it was with totally different feelings. Routh had considerable
powers of self-command, and could always be civil and apparently
good-tempered, no matter what his real humour might be, when it
accorded with his interests to be so. But he was not a man to treat
inferiors with courtesy, or to refrain from rudeness and brutality
where they were safe, and unlikely to do him any discredit.
Consequently, servants and other recipients of the outpourings of his
temper hated him with a vivid cordiality. Jim, the street-boy, had
been employed by him occasionally, and had formed, apart from certain
other knowledge he had gained concerning Mr. Stewart Routh, the worst
opinion of that gentleman's disposition and character.
"He's a bad 'un, anyhow," the boy muttered, as he watched Mr. Routh
letting himself into the house he inhabited with his latch-key, having
previously taken a handful of letters from the postman at the door.
"An ill-lookin' dog, too. Scowled at the letters as if he was a-goin'
to eat 'em. P'raps they're love letters. I shouldn't wonder, now, as
the lady is a pinin' for some 'un else, and he's jealous, and gets
hold on all the letters to catch her out."
This bright idea, which Jim Swain derived from his habitual reading of
penny romances, devoted to the delineation of the tender passion,
afforded him considerable gratification, and he had already consumed
several minutes and a cold sausage while turning it over in his mind,
when Harriet Routh came out of the house, and passed him, as he leaned
against the wall under the archway. She was very pale and quite
absorbed in thought, so that, though the lad respectfully pulled a
tuft of his tousled hair in salutation, she did not perceive his
presence.
"She's not like the same woman," mused Mr. James Swain; "she's gone as
white as anything; looks just as if she'd had to git her own livin'
for ever so long, and found it precious hard to git, too. If he's
jealous of her, and a ill treatin' of her, blowed if I won't peach!
No, no, I won't, though, leastways not yet, 'cause I can't without
lettin' out on myself too; but," said the boy with a long look which
softened the cunning of his face strangely, "I would like to know as
she was happier than I think she is."
In the wide city of London there was not another human being to feel
any such wish in connection with Harriet Routh. She was quite alone.
She had so willed it, and circumstances had aided her inclination and
her resolve. In the life which her husband had adopted, and she had
accepted, intimacies, friendships, were impossible. The only relation
between them and their kind was the relation between the swindler and
his dupes, always a merely "business" connection, and generally very
brief in its duration. Harriet had not a female friend in the world.
Perhaps she would not have had one under any circumstances; she was
not a woman to cherish sentiment; the one love of her life was an
overmastering passion, which had absorbed all lesser feelings; and the
secretiveness and reserve, which were large elements in her moral
nature, would have been inimical to such association, which, above
all, needs gushingness for its satisfactory development. Her husband's
male friends saw her seldom, and were not observant or interested in
the health, spirits, or appearance of any but themselves; so there was
no one but the street-boy to note the change that had passed upon her.
Routh, indeed, observed it, with the bitter, selfish impatience of his
character, and silently resented it. But only silently; he made no
comment, and Harriet, for the first time, failed to interpret his
feelings.
She _was_ changed. Changed in face, in manner, in voice, in the daily
habits of her life. The light had faded from her blue eyes, and with
it their colour had paled. Her cheek had lost its roundness, and there
was something set and stony in her face. It had been calm, now it was
rigid. Her voice, still low and refined, was no longer musical, and
her words were rare. Personal habits are tenacious, and rarely yield,
even to strong mental excitement, or under the pressure of anxious
care, and Harriet, always neat and careful in her simple dress, was
neat and careful still. But a close observer would have marked a
change even in this respect. She cared for her looks no longer. An
ill-assorted ribbon, or ill-chosen colour, would once have been
impossible to Harriet Routh; but it was all the same to her now. What
were the symptoms of the moral change that had passed upon her as
distinctly as the physical? They were rather those of intensification
than of alteration. Her determination had assumed a sternness which
had not before marked it, her identification of herself with Routh had
become more than ever complete. The intensity of the passion with
which she loved him was hardly capable of increase, but its quiet was
gone. The pliable ease, the good-fellowship, the frank equality of
their companionship had departed; and though her attention to his
interests, her participation in his schemes, were as active and
unceasing as ever, they were no longer spontaneous, they were the
result of courageous and determined effort, sustained as only a woman
can sustain effort which costs her acute and unrelenting suffering.
She had been much alone of late. Routh had been much and profitably
occupied. The affairs of the new company were progressing favourably,
and Routh's visits to Flinders were frequent and well received. He had
other things of the sort on hand, and his finances were in a
flourishing condition. He was on the road to success, after the
fashion of modern successes, and if his luck did not change, all the
respectability which attaches to a fortunate speculation was on the
cards for Stewart Routh. No restoration to his former place was
possible, indeed; but Routh cared nothing for that, would, perhaps,
not have accepted such a restoration had it been within his reach.
Struggle, scheming, shifts, and the excitement consequent thereon,
were essential to him now; he liked them; the only game he could play
with any relish was a desperate one. To what extent he had played it
was known only to himself and Harriet, and he was beginning to be
afraid of his confederate. Not afraid of her trustworthiness, of her
fidelity, of her staunch and unshrinking devotion; Stewart Routh was
just as confident, as of the fact of his existence, that his wife
would cheerfully have given her life for him, as she gave it to him,
but the man's nature was essentially base, and the misused strength,
the perverted nobility of hers crushed and frightened him. He had not
felt it so much while they were very poor, while all their schemes and
shifts were on a small scale, while his every-day comforts depended on
her active management and unfailing forethought. But now, when he had
played for a great stake and won it, when a larger career was open
before him--a career from which he felt she would shrink, and into
which he could never hope to force her--he grew desperately afraid of
Harriet. Desperately tired of her also. He was a clever man, but she
was cleverer than he. He was a man of strong passions, ungovernable,
save by the master-passion, interest. She had but one, love; but it
was stronger than all his put together, and told to do their worst,
and his shallow nature shrank from the unknown depths of hers. She
loved him so entirely that there had never been a question of rule
between them; but Routh was a wise man in his way, and he knew in his
heart he could rule Harriet only by love, and love which was perfectly
genuine and true, should the time ever come in which a distant
separation of opinion and will between them should make it necessary
for him to try. But he had a clear appreciation of his wife's
intellect also, and he knew thoroughly well that he could not deceive
her with any counterfeit presentment--the love which should rule her
must be real. This was precisely what he had not to produce when
required. He had loved her after his fashion for so long that he was
rather surprised by his own constancy: but it would have been
difficult for Stewart Routh to go on loving any one but himself
always, and Harriet was so much superior to him in strength, firmness,
and disinterestedness, that her very superiority was an element of
destruction for the love of such a man as he.
In all that concerned the business of Stewart Routh's life, Harriet's
conduct was still the same as before--she was still industrious and
invaluable to him. But the occupations which had filled her leisure
hours were all neglected now, the lonely time was no more lightened by
the pursuits which her early education and her natural tastes had
endeared and rendered habitual to her. One of two moods now possessed
her, either uncontrollable restlessness or absorbed brooding. She
would start off, when Routh had left her, and walk for hours through
the crowded thoroughfares, out into the suburbs of London, or up and
down the most distant and less frequented parts of the Parks,
returning home weary and footsore, but with the torturing sense of
restlessness unsubdued. Or, when she was alone, she would sit for
hours, not in a selected position of comfort, but anywhere, on the
first seat that came in her way, her head drooping, her eyes fixed and
vacant, her hands closely clasped and lying in her lap, her fair low
brow contracted by a stern and painful frown. From either of these two
moods she rarely varied; and even in Routh's presence, one or the
other would master her at times. It chanced that on the day when Jim
Swain had seen Routh return to his lodgings, and take some letters
from the postman, the restless fit had come very strongly upon
Harriet, and she had gone to her room to dress herself for walking,
when Routh unexpectedly returned. He went into the sitting-room,
and concluding she would be down-stairs presently, waited for her,
reading the letters in his hand, frowningly the while. But Harriet had
passed quietly down the stairs and gone out, without re-entering the
sitting-room, and Routh waited in vain. At length he sought her in her
room, and not finding her, he angrily rang the bell, and asked the
servant if she knew anything about her. She did not, and Routh
dismissed her, and began to stride about the room, uttering very
uncalled-for objurgations on women who were never in the way when they
were wanted. As he passed the window, his eye fell upon Jim Swain
tranquilly eating bread and cheese, as he leaned against the opposite
railings. Routh looked at him again more closely, and again; finally,
he took up his hat, went down-stairs, out of the door, and across the
street, close up to the boy.
"Hollo, you sir!" he addressed him roughly. "What are you doing here?"
Mr. James Swain eyed his questioner with no pleasant or grateful
expression of countenance, and replied, curtly:
"Nothin'!"
"What brings you here, then?" continued Routh.
"I ain't a doin' you any harm, am I?" answered the boy, all his native
impudence brought out in a moment by the overbearing manner of Routh.
"It ain't your street, I believe, nor yet your archway, as I knows
on; and if I chooses to odd job on this here lay, I don't hurt _you_,
do I?"
The saucy manner of the lad did not anger Routh; he hardly seemed to
notice it, but appeared to be entirely possessed by some struggling
remembrance not of a pleasing kind, if his expression afforded any
correct clue to it.
"Have you seen a lady come out of No. 60 since you have been about
here?" he asked, passing by the boy's saucy remarks as if he had not
heard them.
"Yes, I have. I saw the lady as lives there, not two minutes after you
came in. She went that way." And he pointed down the street.
"Had she anything in her hand? Did she look as if she was going for a
walk, or out shopping?"
"She hadn't no basket or bag, and she warn't partickler dressed; not
as nice as she's dressed sometimes. I _should_ say," continued Mr. Jim
Swain, with an air of wisdom and decision, "as she was going for a
constitootional, all by herself, and not to shop nor nothin'."
Routh's attention had wandered from the boy's words, and was fixed
upon his face.
"Have I ever seen you before?" he asked him, abruptly.
A sudden rush of colour dyed Mr. James Swain's face, even, through the
varnish of dirt which hid its surface, as he replied, with a little
less than his customary boldness:
"Yes, sir, you've seen me, though in course you ain't likely to
remember it. You've giv' me many a penny, and a sixpence too, and the
lady."
Again Routh looked steadily, but covertly, at him under his thick
brows. He was evidently eager to ask him some question, but he
refrained, restrained by some powerful motive. Jim looked uneasily up
and down the street, moved his feet about restlessly, turned his
ragged pockets inside out, letting loose a multitude of dirty
crumbs, and displayed a fidgety inclination to get away from South
Molton-street.
"Well," said Routh, rousing himself from his abstraction, "we're going
to move next week, and you can come and do the odd jobs for us, if you
like."
"Thankee, sir," said Jim, who was very respectful now, and touched his
ragged cap as if he had quite altered his opinion of the speaker.
"What day shall I come, sir?"
"I don't exactly know," said Routh; "you can call and ask the lady."
And then he gave the lad a shilling, to Jim Swain's intense surprise,
and, crossing the street, once more let himself in at the door of No.
60. Having reached the sitting-room, Stewart Routh sat down by the
window and fell into a fit of musing as deep as those in which Harriet
Routh passed hours away.
Mr. James Swain went briskly down the street, pleasantly conscious
that the unexpected windfall of the shilling had released him from the
labours of his calling for the day, and determined to proceed at once
to lay it out to the greatest advantage.
"Wotever is he up to _now?_" Thus ran the street-boy's thoughts. "I'm
sure he's jealous, or he wouldn't be coming home unexpected, and a
watchin' of her like that. Ain't he a brute just? And a willin too?
Well, I'm glad I ain't _sure_--I'm very glad I ain't sure."
With this enigmatical phrase, Mr. James Swain abandoned his mental
colloquy, and directed his thoughts to more immediately personal
matters.
Routh was still sitting by the window when Harriet returned, and with
the first glance at his face she saw that something new had occurred.
"I did not expect you home until six o'clock," she said, as she laid
aside her bonnet, and stood by his side, laying her hand tenderly upon
his shoulder.
"No," he returned; "I came home to get some papers for Flinders about
the Tunbridge Canal business; but you have them, Harry, and you were
out."
"Well," she said, calmly, looking at him with questioning eyes. "What
has happened, Stewart?"
"This," he returned, very slowly, and without meeting her gaze. "As I
came in I met the postman with this letter. Read it, and tell me what
is to be done."
She sat down close beside him, and took the letter he held towards
her. It was addressed to George Dallas, to the care of Routh, and
it was, in fact, the letter which Mr. Carruthers had written to his
stepson prior to his departure from Poynings. As Harriet read, her
right hand sought her husband's, and held it tightly. The old look of
quiet resolution, the old expression of confident resource, came into
her face. She read the paper twice before she spoke.
"Stewart," she said, "this is only another head of the hydra, and we
had counted them, had we not? What we have to decide is, whether this
letter shall be suppressed, or whether it must be forwarded to George
Dallas. At first sight, I see no possibility of suppressing it without
infinite danger, but this is only first sight, and we may see more
clearly afterwards."
"Dallas has never said anything to you about letters from his mother,
has he?" asked Routh.
"No," replied Harriet, "not since his second letter, when he said he
supposed she was testing his repentance and good conduct, and that he
would not write until he could give her some proof of both."
"Get the old woman's letter, and let us read it again."
Harriet went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, and took a paper
from its recesses. It was the letter which Mrs. Brookes had written to
George Dallas. The two read it carefully, and Harriet spoke first.
"We can only conjecture the meaning of this, Stewart; but, as I make
it out, it means that the proceedings at the--the inquest"--she paused
almost imperceptibly, then went on, in a steady tone--"awakened his
mother's fears. It was lucky he told us the story of his mother's
anxiety about his coat, or we should have failed to catch the clue.
Now I read the riddle thus: Mrs. Carruthers has been dangerously ill
in consequence of the shock of the discovery, but she has not betrayed
her knowledge or suspicions. A good deal of time has been gained, and
under any circumstances that is a priceless advantage. The question
now is, can any more time be gained? Can George Dallas be kept in
ignorance of the appearances against him any longer? The suppression
of the old woman's letter was an easy matter. It is ill-written, you
see, as servants' letters usually are, indistinctly addressed, and
generally unimportant. But a letter written by Mr. Carruthers of
Poynings is quite another matter. It must come out, some time or
other, that it was not received, and he is precisely the man to
investigate the matter to the utmost. No, no, the letter must be sent
to Dallas."
She spoke firmly, but her eyes were dreamy and distant. Routh knew
their expression, and that some expedient, some resolve, was shaping
itself in her mind. He sat quite silent until she spoke again.
"The first thing we have to do is to ascertain with all possible
exactitude the real condition of Mrs. Carruthers, where she is at
present, and whether we are right in supposing her fears were excited.
This letter is not calculated to bring George home, I think. Of
course, if it had reached him before they left Poynings, he would have
come home at once; but, see, Mr. Carruthers writes on the 10th, and
says they are to start on the 11th. This is the 13th. What is the
post-mark?"
"Dover," said Routh, handing her the envelope.
"Posted after they left England, no doubt," said Harriet. "Stewart,
there is just one thing to be done. Let us move from this at once. It
is only doing so a little sooner than we had intended. Then, if we
decide on suppressing the letter, its loss may be accounted for, even
to the satisfaction of Mr. Carruthers. This, while we consider what
must be done."
"Yes," said Routh, "I think that will be wise; but I do not see my way
out of the danger of his return, if he returns when he has received
the letter. He will go down to Amherst at once, and will discover the
suspicion, and at once take steps to clear himself of it."
"Perhaps so," said Harriet, and her face darkened, "but he may not
find that so easy. I hope he will not put himself into the danger; but
if he does--" She paused, and looked thoughtfully into her husband's
face, while a quick shudder crept over her. He saw the look in her
eyes, he felt the quiver in her hand, and frowned darkly.
"Don't take to melodrama, Harriet, it's so unlike you, and doesn't
suit you. Besides, it's too late in the day for that kind of thing
now."
She took no notice of the ungracious speech, but still stood looking
thoughtfully at him. He rose, letting her hand drop from his shoulder,
and walked up and down the room.
"Stewart," she said gently, "you must not be impatient with me if I am
not as ready of resource as I was. However, I think I see what ought
to be done in this emergency, and I am quite sure I can do it. I will
go to Amherst, find out the true state of things there, see the old
woman at Poynings, who will gladly receive me as a friend of George
Dallas; and then, and then only, can we decide whether this letter is
to reach him or not."
"By Jove, Harry, that's a splendid idea!" said Routh; "and there can't
be any risk in it, for Dallas would take your doing it as the greatest
kindness. _You_ not so ready of resource as you were? You're more so,
my girl--you're more so."
There was a little wonder in the look she turned upon him, a little
surprise at the lightness of his tone, but not a ray of the pleasure
which his perverted praise had once given her.
"This is the best thing to do," she said, gravely, "and I will do it
at once. I will go to-morrow morning."
"And I will get our traps moved, and put up at the Tavistock till you
come back. You can pack this evening, I suppose, Harry?"
"O yes," she answered. "I shall be glad of the occupation."
"And you'll do it more easily without me," said Routh, whom no crisis
of events, however serious, could render indifferent to his individual
comforts, and to whom the confusion of packing was an image of horror
and disgust; "so I shall dine out, and leave you to your own devices.
Here, you had better lock these up." He took the letters from a table
on which she had laid them as she spoke, and held them towards her.
She drew a step nearer to him, took the papers from his hand; then
suddenly let them drop upon the floor, and flung her arms wildly round
Routh's neck.
"Harriet, Harriet," he said, "what's this?" as he strove to lift her
face which she held pressed against his breast with terrible force.
She answered him with a groan--a groan so full of anguish, that his
callousness was not proof against it.
"My love, my darling, my brave girl, don't, don't!" was all he could
say, as he bent his head over her and held her tightly to him. For
several moments she stood thus; then she lifted her white face, put up
her hands, and drew his face down to hers, kissed him with kisses
which thrilled him with an unknown sense of fear and doom, and,
instantly releasing, left him.
Mr. James Swain got the promised odd job in South Molton-street sooner
than he had expected it; for, calling at No. 60, according to Mr.
Routh's instructions, to ask the lady when his services would be
required, he was informed that she had gone away, and he was to carry
down the boxes to be conveyed to their destination in the van then
standing at the door. Jim performed his duty with a perturbed spirit.
"Gone away, is she?" he said over and over again. "Now I should like
to know where she's gone, and wot for. I hope he ain't be up to
nothin' agin her; but I don't trust him, and I ain't a goin' to lose
sight of him for longer than I can help, if I knows it, until she's
safe back _some_wheres."
"That funeral is largely attended for a small town," said Harriet
Routh to the waiter at the inn at Amherst, who was laying the cloth
for her dinner. She was sitting by a window on the ground-floor, and
idly watching the decorous procession as it passed along the main
street, to the huge admiration of gaping boys and gossiping
nursemaids.
"Yes, ma'am," replied the man, gladly seizing the opportunity of
approaching the window and having a peep on his own account. "He was
very much respected, was old Mr. Evans; no one in the town more so. He
gave the best of measures, and used the best of mater'als; and a
charitabler man, nor a constanter at meetin', though uncommon deaf
latterly, ain't in Amherst."
Harriet looked inquiringly at the speaker.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, you're a stranger, of course, and don't
know nothin' about poor old Evans. He were a tailor, ma'am, at
Amherst, man and boy, for fifty year and more, and got a deal of
custom, which they do say no tailor here won't have for the future,
seeing as they can't compete with the Sydenham suits."
Harriet made no comment upon the man's little discourse, and he left
the room. When she was alone, she smiled a smile not good to see, and
said, half aloud:
"I remember how they used to talk about Providence and providential
interventions on behalf of the good, long ago, when I used to fancy I
believed in Providence, and when I certainly did believe in the
existence of the good. I wonder what these people would call _this?_
If it is a providential intervention, the theory has two sides."